Forgiven Now
by Sula Bulungi
Summary: New developments in Richie's powers present a new adversary: one that stems from within his own mind. Static strives to keep up as Gear and the Justice League struggle to save Dakota's brightest from the assault of his own thoughts.
1. Chapter 1

He's in pain. I can see it in his expression. The lines of his back, the way he holds his shoulders… everything's wrong. I don't know what to do.

He says he's okay. Every time I ask, he insists that everything's fine, that he's just thinking about something or he has a headache or he's worried about this or that. But the way he shifts his eyes, the way he twists his hands… it all tells me that he's lying to my face. And it hurts a little to realize that he's not being honest with me. Honest the way best friends are with each other. Honest the way _we'd _always been with each other.

I wish I could help him. I wish I could see inside that brilliant, extraordinary head of his and know what it is that's plaguing him… that's carving that horrible expression into his features. That's making him lie to me.

"You okay, Rich?" I ask for the hundredth time that day as the cool night wind whooshes in my ears. I watch him from the corner of my eye, careful to maintain my footing on the electrified disc.

"Mmm-hmm," he responds immediately, looking away from me like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "I'm fine."

"You're quiet."

"Nothing to say," he shrugs, scanning the cityscape a hundred feet below us. I can see his hands roll into fists at his sides as he readjusts his direction, blazing rocket 'blades shifting around behind him. "No sign of anything weird. I think we're in for a calm night."

I nod, sighing. I guess I can ignore the blatant change of subject for now. I don't know what to say anyway, if I were to persist.

"We could probably have an early night tonight," I respond, eying the calm streets that sparkle below. Like, two o'clock, maybe."

"Ah," Richie quips, "Luxurious. A full four and a half hours of sleep before we have to be up for school."

It's my turn to shrug, grinning. "Hey man, it's not my fault you can't function on less than a solid eight hours. I can just handle things on my own if you'd like to toddle off to bed, Gramps."

"Ha ha." He rolls his eyes. "The hilarity is slaying me."

"I'm just saying," I continue loftily, "You do get a little cranky without your regular naps, Wee Richie. Perhaps we should start scheduling them in before patrols. What do you think?"

Richie responds with a fairly rude gesture and a yawn.

"I…" he breaths, stifling the yawn, "… would like to see _you_ operate at full capacity with as many all-nighters as I've been pulling. And anyway, who are you to judge anyone, Mr. Energizer Battery?"

"Hey, I will not be associated with that creepy pink rabbit…" I respond sharply. Ugh. I really hate that bunny.

Richie laughs a little, but it sounds pretty feeble. I direct my disk around to face him, forcing him to pull up vertically. We hover there in the air, illuminated by my electricity, and I scrutinize the face beneath the green-tinted visor.

"What?" he demands, flushing. He won't meet my eyes.

Though he turns his face away, I see him anyway. His blue eyes seem a little duller than usual… a little sadder. They're underscored with heavy purple shadows and hooded in a way that reminds me of the time he had pneumonia, when we were little… a memory I don't particularly appreciate being prompted to recall.

"Seriously, Gear, you look beat." I try to sound casual, but I can hear the concern in my voice. "Maybe you really should take tonight off, try and catch up on the Z's."

He rolls his eyes again, sighing heavily. "I'm fine, Static," he states in his most rational voice. Which is infuriatingly rational. "No more or less exhausted than you are. I've simply been working on some new programs that take a lot of time and concentration. I upgraded my 'blades," he performed a cool little flip with a complicated twist of his rocket 'blades, "and Backpack's got some improvements as well. I'm fine."

I cock my eyebrow, fixing him with my best skeptical scowl. He folds his arms across his chest, draws his ankles together in a rather impressive display of mid-air balance, and matches my stare, frown for frown.

After a lengthy glaring contest, I cave. "I just don't want you overdoing it, bro," I say. "I don't want you to get hurt. I've said it before and I'll say it again: you're too smart for your own good, Gear."

For a moment he watches me with an unreadable, unnerving, almost dangerous expression, and I'm afraid he's going to blow. But finally he releases me from his gaze and chuckles. I breathe a relieved sigh. I never know how Richie is going to react anymore… he's unpredictable. I'm thankful he's behaving like himself tonight.

"You worry too much, Static," he declares, waving a hand dismissively. "I promise I'll sleep this weekend. I'll lie in bed day and night until my mother positively drags me into the daylight, how's that?"

I pretend to consider for a moment, rubbing my chin thoughtfully. "Throw in a couple movies and some burgers with your best friend and it's a deal."

He nods, smiling, and extends a hand for me to shake. For a moment, it feels just like normal. Like Richie isn't hiding anything from me and I'm not smoldering with worry over him. Like we're just us: Static and Gear, shaking hands in the sky. A surge of exhilaration floods my veins, and I can see the violet glow around me ignite into sparks. I smirk at Richie.

"So… how 'bout a race? Test out those upgrades on the 'blades?"

"Well…"

He leans back in the air a little, the picture of cool relaxation. His arms fold up behind his head, and his eyes drift to the starry sky above. He looks completely at rest…

Then, he's gone.

"Cheater!" I cry, rocketing after his retreating figure. "Get back here and race me like a _man_!"

His laughter fills the quiet sky.

He leans over his desk, eyes fixed on the test over which his pencil is poised, but I can see that they're glazed and distant. His left hand is twisted in his bright hair and his glasses have slid down to the very tip of his nose, but he doesn't bother to push them back up in that distinctively geeky, index-finger way I've always made fun of. In fact, he hardly seems to notice. His number two hasn't moved in at least ten minutes. His brow is furrowed.

I swallow a couple times, trying to focus on my own test. I read question eighteen for the tenth time and once again forget the words before I even register them. I fill in bubble C, just so it looks like I'm doing something.

Whatever's been eating at Richie is back with a vengeance. He's distant and quiet, barely having said a word to me since we met to walk to school this morning. In this fluorescent light, his face looks paler and thinner than ever. I don't bother hiding the anxiety I know is displayed on my face.

I pinch the pink eraser from the end of my pencil. Glancing to make sure Miss Peters' eyes are otherwise occupied, I quickly and deftly flick it at the side of Richie's face, two rows over.

He doesn't react in the slightest as the eraser bounces off his left ear. I frown.

Stuffing my hand into my pocket, I fish around for the paperclip I know I dropped in there when I found it in my locker this morning. I like to keep things that I know will keep my restless hands engaged during seventh period History. Glancing to my left and my right, I make sure my fellow students are either concentrating on their tests or, in the case of Douglas O'Hara to my left, slumbering peacefully on blank answer sheets. Everyone seems suitably occupied…

I zap the little paperclip. It glows violet in my electrified hand, and, aiming carefully, I send it sailing at my best friend before it can lose its charge.

It hits him on the cheek. He jolts out of his stupor at the impact, hand flying to a clearly stinging cheek. He looks around with sort of wild eyes, like he's completely forgotten he's in the middle of class and finally meets my eyes.

_Wake up, man,_ I mouth, pointing at the space above the door. He follows my gesture to the clock, and his eyes widen when he sees the time there. Three minutes left in class. I watch him scramble for his dropped pencil, poke his glasses back up his nose (with his index finger, I note with a smirk) and examine the test before him. I see him fill in first bubble on the answer sheet. Question one. I flip to the back of my test. There are twenty-three questions. _He'll never finish in time_, I think as I hurry to complete my own.

As we follow a very well-rested Douglas O'Hara out of Miss Peters' classroom, I draw level with Richie.

"What happened to you, man?" I ask as he carelessly slaps his test onto to stack. "You looked like you were a million miles away!"

Richie shakes his head, blinking in a disoriented way. "I dunno, I guess I drifted off."

"Well you're lucky I dragged you back! You hadn't answered a single question, had you?"

He lets loose a strained laugh. "Nope, not one. Thanks, bro."

I pat his slumped shoulder as we head toward his locker. "No prob. How far did you get before the end of class?"

"Hmm?" he asks distractedly, shifting his chemistry book to the top of the stack in his arms.

"How far did you get?" I repeat, "On the test? Just now?"

"Oh that. I finished."

I stop dead. "You finished?"

"Mmm-hmm," he mumbles, oblivious to my shock.

"The test we took just now?"

"Yep."

"The one you started three minutes before the bell rang?"

"Uh… yeah," he answers, finally realizing that he's left me standing stationary in the hall. He backtracks, frowning at my expression. "You okay, V?"

I shake my head, staring unabashedly at my brilliant best friend. "That test was _hard_, Rich. It took me all of the double period to get to question twenty of twenty-three."

"Calculus comes easy for me, V," Richie's blushing now, shifting the books in his arms. "You know that."

I shake my head again, trying to clear it of my astonishment. I really shouldn't be surprised. Richie's solved problems NASA scientists couldn't fathom. A little high school math wouldn't hold him up, even under a time constraint that would make most brains explode. I clap him on the shoulder trying to behave normally, but my voice is still a little breathy.

"Sometimes I forget just how smart you are, is all," I explain loudly, laughing at the embarrassed flush I've dragged to his cheeks. "It does a number on the ego, having a super-genius for a best friend."

"Well," he responds, waving his hand at my compliments, "It's not like it's the first time I've done something like that. And hey!" He rams his shoulder into mine, knocking me into the lockers that line the walls. "Why the heck did you have to zap me, right there in class? I almost jumped out of my seat!"

I hold up my free hand. "Hey, I tried to catch you with a plain old non-conductive eraser, you didn't even blink! Desperate times, bro! Did you take something this morning, Rich? 'Cause whatever it is, it gotta be some heavy stuff; you were like, out. Come on, man, you can tell me!"

"No, I am not on drugs," he replies haughtily, swiftly spinning his combination into his lock. "And I resent that insinuation, thank you very much. I was just… thinking."

"Thinking about drugs?"

"Shut up, you!" he tosses his books unceremoniously into his locker, where they land with a crash and the crunch of something breaking. He looks for a moment like he might try to locate the damaged item, them shrugs, tugs a binder loose from the pile, and slams the whole thing shut. "Drugs are not a factor here!"

I swing my backpack onto my other shoulder and we set off toward my locker. "There's no need to go all defensive, bro. You just looked… really out of it."

Richie shrugs, clearly at a loss for an explanation. I steel my nerves for the inevitable backlash and ask my habitual question.

"You okay?"

He sighs, annoyed. "Yes, Virgil, I'm fine. Just like I was fine this morning and last night and the day before. I've been fine, I'm still fine and I'm fairly certain I will remain fine in the foreseeable future. So if you don't mind… enough with the question."

"Alright, alright," I defend, expertly masking the hurt and concern his remark has evoked in me. I ignore the stinging in my chest. "Just askin'."

I maintain the cool composure I'm so good at for the rest of the day. I fake smiles and joke with Daisy and compare notes with Jonathan Spencer in seventh period History. I pretend that it's done; that Richie's irritability hasn't affected me and I've forgotten all about his little outburst.

But I haven't. I _know_ something is wrong with him, and it's more than teenage mood swings. I know that it's important, and I'm not letting it go. I resolve, by the end of school, that I'm going to confront Richie about it, and there's nothing he can do about it. I'll get it out of him or I'll die trying. And that's that.

I'm feeling rather empowered by the time I drop my skateboard to the cement in front of the school, waiting for Rich to come out and meet me. I wheel around a little, pop a few tricks while the school empties past me, and catch Patrick Jensen and Omar Green in high fives as I grind down the school handrail. Frieda waves at me as she rolls down the window in her mother's car. Mr. French, the Spanish teacher, yells at me for skateboarding on school property and I manage to look meek and ashamed enough to escape punishment. By the time he leaves me with a stern look and reenters the school, almost everyone is gone. And Richie hasn't joined me yet.

"Where is that boy?" I ask myself, peeking around a corner of the building. No one.

I scuff my shoes against the cement, wondering what to do. Richie's never stood me up before. We've walked home from school every day since fifth grade, barring the occasional sick day. I wait for a few minutes longer, hoping that he was held up by a teacher or the contents of his explosively messy locker finally collapsed on him or something, but no dice. No sign of the boy. So, with a sigh and one last look around the corner, I step onto my skateboard and head for home.

_Maybe he's still mad at me_, I think. _I really got on his nerves with the questions and he ditched me._ I don't like thinking about Richie being that angry with me. He's not the type to get pissed off over something so trivial. In fact, Richie's not really the type to get pissed off at all. He's a pretty agreeable kid. Well, he _usually_ is. Lately, he's been acting more like a certain fire-tossing tantrum thrower we fight on a woefully regular basis.

I pinwheel my arms, narrowly avoiding a long stretch of epically broken sidewalk.

The funny thing is, Richie's usually a pretty open guy. When there's something wrong, I'm the first person he tells. A call to my house when I'm Virgil, a buzz on the Shock Vox when I'm Static; either way, he locates me and tells me the deal. Just like I find him when I've got a crisis to slog through. That's the way we are, the way we've always been: we tell each other everything, then plow through our problems together. Why else would I have told him about the whole controlling electricity conundrum, first thing?

I flap my hands as I board through a flock of disturbed pigeons.

I can't begin to guess what it is that's got him so… distracted. Why would he lie to me? Why does he think he needs to insist he's okay, when he's clearly not? There's no precedence for his conduct. It's like there's a whole new person in Richie's clothes; a grumpy, jumpy, space-case who thinks I'm out to get him or something equally stupid.

I instinctively duck a little as I hear rocket-powered 'blades soar past overhead.

I can't wait until I find that kid. He's going to get it, no doubt about it. He'll answer my questions, oh yes, and if he doesn't he can expect a king-sized…

Wait.

'Blades?

I turn my face upward, shading my eyes with my hand, and search the skies…

There, darting over the buildings like a greenish missile, is my absentee best friend. He blew me off to go be Gear. Without even a Shock Vox call. I grind my teeth, glaring up at the boy in the sky.

A small, middle-aged woman near me looks up, wondering what I'm staring at I guess. She laughs cheerfully as she sees Gear, rocketing across the sky like a scrawny Superman.

"That's Gear!" she cries, pointing. "That's Gear, do you see him?"

"Yeah, I see him," I hiss venomously.

"He's wonderful," the woman gushes, obviously oblivious to my aggravation. "I do admire that boy, don't you? Saved my son, just a few months ago! A man was going to shoot him, right there on Center Street. For no reason at all; he was going to kill my baby. And that boy," she jabs her finger skyward, "stepped right in front of him, right in front of the gun! Freddy thought Gear had been shot, but he said he had an armored breastplate or something… oh dear, if I could only meet that boy, he and that Static fellow! What a town this would be without them, what a town…"

The woman totters away, glancing up every other step to watch Gear diminish into to distance. I think about her story, about Freddy… Yeah, I remember Freddy. I remember the gunman, too, caught like a rat in a trap by Gear by the time I got there. But most of all, I remember trying to convince Richie to let me take him to the hospital for the great, black bruise on his chest that even an armored breastplate couldn't prevent. He was reckless that day. I thought he was a goner, when I heard that gunshot over the Shock Vox… boy, that was unpleasant. I almost lost it, I came pretty close.

Man, I hate guns.

I turn into the alleyway behind me, trying to shake the latent memories that suddenly flash before my eyes. I try to focus on the fact that I'm still angry at Richie. I remind myself (repeatedly) that he's _not_ dead and that that bullet did _not_ do any lasting damage.

As I slide my Static mask over my hair and adjust my lightning logoed shirt, I blink away the images of Richie's battered chest and flick my disc into the air. Leaping aboard and hiding my skateboard behind the dumpster, I launch myself into the skies.

The wind is cool against my face; autumn's coming on fast. I relish the feel of the breeze on my skin, spreading my arms wide and breathing the crisp air deeply. But my quarry is in the forefront of my mind, and I can't waste any time if I want to catch Gear. So I summon my considerable power around me, plant my feet firmly on my disc, and burst forward in a flash of light.

I can sort of feel the little electric trail Richie's new 'blades leave behind; I don't quite realize it until I've crossed the odd signature a few times in the air. I follow the vibrations. It's not easy; it takes a lot of focus to zone in on that little wisp of residual energy, all the while ignoring the deluge of power I'm emitting, simply by remaining aloft. Like trying to see a firefly past a bonfire. But I think I've got the hang of it. I've followed it for miles; like a weird sci-fi bloodhound.

The trail spirals downward, swirling around a warehouse near the docks on the West Side. The building is old, probably left over from the Dakota's crazy industrial period about a thousand years ago. It's still standing, but even from the air, I can see how decrepit it is. Clearly, not a soul comes here regularly.

Gear's seeking solitude, I deduce.

_Well, I'm going to ruin his little lonely sulk-fest, to hell with the consequences,_ I resolve doggedly. Riding on waves of anger, I descend in a streak of indigo and alight on the rooftop, careful to place my feet gingerly on the rickety metal roofing. With an unnecessary but still awesome flourish, I dismount and fold my disc in a single, twirly move.

Gotta remember that one for when someone's around to see it.

The rooftop is quiet. I can hear the river churning below, a few sirens echoing in the distance, a dog barking somewhere south of here. Some pigeons fuss on the unstable edging.

Where is he?

I peer around me, seeking my wayward friend. The roof has caved in here and there, leaving gaping black holes in the sheeting. Richie's too smart and coordinated to accidentally fall into one, but I peer into the depths of the closest chasm anyway. Can't hurt to check…

I skirt around the edges, trying to see down into the darkness. As I reach the farthest edge of the gap, I round the corner of a bulky air duct, and there, crouched at its base, is Richie.

He doesn't notice me, and I slink backward behind an upturned oil canister (don't ask me why it's on an abandoned rooftop, but I'll use what I've got). I don't know why I hide from Richie; I followed him here with the express intention of confronting him, face-to-face… but something about the way he's slouched there makes me hesitate.

Something's not right with him.

He's slumped against the air duct, elbows propped up on his knees, with his head clutched between his hands... he looks like he's deep in thought.

Or, judging by the apparent tension of his shoulders, in a great deal of pain. His helmet lays discarded at his side. Backpack hums and clicks softly at his elbow.

I watch him for a moment, an inexplicable sense of foreboding building in my chest. I don't know what I'm waiting for, but I can't seem to make myself call out to him, say his name, or even step out from behind this stupid barrel. I just observe him, trying to see…

And with a shock that feels like a punch to the chest, I do see.

There, between his shoes, is a bright puddle of crimson.

I leap out from behind my barrel, released from my reluctance.

"Richie!"

He looks up, and in that split second my heart is seized by an iron fist… my head swims…

His face is set in an expression of utter astonishment. Eyes wide, more vividly blue than ever without glasses to obscure them, mouth open in bewildered silence. His face is pale, paler than I've ever seen, and from his nose, glistening like a ruby ribbon, spills a scarlet stream of blood.

"V-V-Virgil!" he stammers, stumbling to his feet. "Wh… what are y-you doing here?"

It the space of a breath, I'm there beside him. I take his arm, which trembles beneath my grasp, and lower him back to the rooftop as carefully as I can. My heart feels like it's relocated to my throat.

"What happened to you, Richie?" I demand. He looks sicker than I've ever seen him…

"Oh, nothing… nothing happened…"

"That's bullshit, Rich!" I cry, taking his head between my hands. He winces at my touch. "Tell me the truth! Tell me what you've been hiding from me!"

His eyelids are fluttering with each word I bellow, and I realize belatedly that screaming at him is probably not helping whatever pain he's currently enduring. I lower my voice to a hiss.

"Tell me, now, Richie. Or I swear I'll… I'll…"

A faint smirk traces his pale lips. "You'll what?"

Inspiration strikes me. "I'll tell my dad you're behaving strangely… sort of like you're on drugs."

His eyes widen in horror. "You wouldn't…"

"I will! So tell me what's going on, Rich."

He's silent for a minute, just looking into my eyes with this vulnerable expression on his face that makes me want to _kill _whoever's done this to him…

"You can tell me, bro," I murmur. "I just want to help you."

He stares for a moment longer, and I can see the decision forming in his eyes. Finally…

"I think I'm losing my mind."

I reel back on my heels.

"What?"

"You heard me," Richie says, gaze falling to his shoes. "I'm losing it… I'm going 'round the proverbial bend."

I have _no idea_ what to say. _No idea_.

Apparently, he takes that as a bad sign. "I know it's screwed up, V. I'm just like all those geniuses who've gone mad, all the psychos that guys like Superman and The Flash and you fight against… That's why I didn't tell you, I didn't want you to have to deal with all this. It's not your job to try and salvage the dregs of my sanity; you didn't sign up for Operation: Hold Richie's Head Together-"

"Richie," I interrupt, "Shut up."

He obliges.

"Now," I say with a matter-of-fact tone, "tell me what the hell you're talking about."

He blinks. Then, he tentatively meets my gaze. "It's been going on for a while now. At first, I thought I was just going through a period of unusual inspiration, touched by the scientific muses, or something like that. But… it got worse, V. It's getting worse. My head aches, all the time. And my thoughts are… are everywhere; I can't shut my brain off. I have a hundred ideas at once, and they're all ground-breaking and utterly brilliant but there are just so _many_ of them and I can't seem to process them all… it's like someone flipped the overdrive switch and I can't work out how to un-flip it. I can't shut it off long enough to sleep… I can't even finish a stupid math test without getting lost in calculations concerning the exact relative yearly orbital circulation of the sixth moon of a planet six hundred thirty seven thousand nine hundred and fourteen light-years from the Archimedes cluster… Who _cares_ about a moon six hundred thirty seven thousand nine hundred and fourteen light-years from _anywhere_, I ask you?"

"Ri-"

"It's just too much, V. One person isn't meant to know as much as I do; one brain isn't designed to function on the level mine does. I've calculated it: the odds of a person as intelligent as me ending up cuckoo are fairly substantial… and by 'fairly', I mean 'ludicrously'… And I don't know what to do about it, so I come out here by myself to try and out-shout some of this useless crap, but today… today, my head just hurts so _badly_…"

I can feel my mouth working, seeking words that my brain refuses to provide. I am simply, outright and wholly blown away.

It never occurred to me… it never _would_ have occurred to me, not in a million years, that he could possibly think he's insane. Sure, I came up with a few bizarre theories as I tracked him here, but this… this is just outrageous. He thinks he's losing his grip. He thinks he's insane.

The sorrow in his tortured eyes breaks me out of my dumbness.

"Richie!" I cry, and I can't quite keep the hysteria out of my voice, "Boy, there is no way you're crazy!"

He only stares at me. I can't read a thing on his slack face.

"Seriously, man!" I continue. "Maybe you're getting smarter… maybe that amazing brain of yours is changing just like it did when this first happened to you… I don't know, but I know you're not crazy!"

"Virgil-" he begins in his uber-sensible voice. I cut him off, before he can common-sense me into submission like he's so damn good at.

"And whydidn't you _tell_ me this was happening you idiot?" I hissed.

"I already explained; I didn't want you to-"

"I don't _care_, man! I don't care how you thought this would affect me, you should have told me!" I throw my hands up, hearing my voice crack wildly. I can't bring myself to care. "Look at you, Richie! You're hurt, you're bleeding… I could have helped you. I could have helped you!"

"I was protecting you, stupid! I didn't want…" his voice fades a little, and a frown creases his brow. "Wait… I'm… I'm bleeding?" He glances down at himself, lifting elbows away from his torso.

Panic tingles along my spine. He doesn't realize? How can he not realize…?

I try to repress the shaking as I reach out, run my thumb over his upper lip, and hold it before his eyes. To my alarm, his reaction is one of surprise. His hands dance over his face, finding the source of the bleeding (which is worsening by the minute) and I watch his expression as he grimaces at his bloody fingers. There's a little too much confusion in his expression to set me at ease.

"Well," he murmurs, mystified, "that's not a good sign."

And his eyes roll upward, and his head falls forward into my chest.

A long time ago, I was entrusted with something I never dreamed of having. A real honor; something a lot of people in the world would kill to have. He pulled me aside, away from Richie and his fellows, and quietly, in that voice of his that rumbled ominously like thunder, murmured to me as he pressed something into my hands.

"Don't lose this," he'd growled, fixing me with an all-seeing stare. "Use it only in the greatest need."

"What constitutes a 'greatest need'?" I had asked him cheekily, inspecting the object in my fingers. "Like, tour-of-the-Watchtower sort of need?"

His response was a smoldering glare.

I've kept this on me since that day, just like he'd told me to. Whether I'm Virgil or I'm Static, I keep it clipped to my shirt or my jacket near my chest, just out of site. And I've never been gladder than I am right now that I followed his advice.

"Batman," I speak into the tiny comlink, "I need your help."

There's a long silence, during which my heart thrums chaotically and my hands flap uselessly over my best friend's still body. I blink past the tears that cloud my vision, checking his fluttering pulse for the twentieth time and watching his chest rise and fall beneath my hands.

_Come on, come on, come on, come on…_

Finally, mercifully, I hear a response.

"What do you want?"

I giggle a little feverishly, relief flooding every nerve at the sound of that sullen voice, and it takes a minute for me to summon my own.

"Batman!" I gasp at last, "Batman I need help!"

His voice is as cool as ever, calm as a preacher's, but he answers promptly. "You mentioned that. What's the problem?"

"It's Gear!" I all but shout into the receiver. Even to myself, I sound a little crazed. "Something's wrong with him… He's unconscious."

There is a short pause. Then, his irritated voice sounds over the transmitter. "I'm certain you've dealt with this kind of thing before, Static," he rumbles condescendingly. "I would suggest you take him to a hospital, if it's serious-"

"You don't understand!" I bellow, my hand twisting in my hair. "This isn't an ordinary wound. It's got something to do with his mind, with his powers! There's something wrong with his head, Batman, and I don't know how to fix it… his nose is bleeding, and just now he was talking about his head hurting, about his thoughts running out of control...He thinks he's going crazy! A hospital can't help him with this, _I _can't help him with this; his powers are… are doing something to him… changing…" My voice chokes off behind the lump swelling in my throat.

Batman is silent for an excruciating moment, and I try to keep my mouth shut. I clutch at Richie's limp wrist, counting the pulse beats. Clinging to them. My own heart feels like it's going to beat its way through my sternum; I can feel my ragged breaths growing quicker and shallower… Then…

"He's bleeding?" he asks.

"Yes!" I wail.

"And you're certain that this is related to his mental powers?"

"_Yes!_"

A pause. My chest threatens to implode.

"I'll have J'onn beam you to the Watchtower." I heave a quaking sigh of relief. "It will take about three minutes to locate your signal; can Gear wait that long?"

I look at my best friend's slack face; at the pallid color of his skin. I feel his shallow breaths beneath my hand and the wavering heartbeat trembling at his throat. I take a deep breath.

"I don't know."

Batman seems to accept that. "He's breathing? His heartbeat is steady?"

"Yeah… yeah he's breathing. But his pulse feels sort of weak…"

"He's alive," he assures. And to my astonishment, I hear in his voice something unexpected and a little bewildering: compassion. I don't know how to react to something as atypical as sympathy from dark, stoic, emotionless Batman. It's too weird. Everything is too weird.

Richie's eyes are roving around beneath his eyelids. I take his hand in mine and squeeze it tightly. _He's not going to die_, I tell myself firmly. _There's no reason to even think that_.

I don't convince myself.

"Static," Batman murmurs from my hand, "J'onn's locked onto your signal. I'll see you and Gear at the Watchtower as soon as I arrive, alright?"

"O-okay," I stammer.

"Prepare for transport."

I close my eyes as a flare of white light envelopes us.


	2. Chapter 2

I neglected to introduce my first chapter! This is Forgiven Now. It's rough and unpolished, but the plot is coming along and the characters are playing rather nicely. The first chapter was obviously in Virgil's point of view, but I've switched to Richie's for this segment. I'll be using both throughout, it should be obvious by context from which character's mind I'm drawing. This is my first attempt at "publishing" my writing, though I've been doing it forever. I hope someone finds it and enjoys it, even if its only one person! Forgive any spelling or grammar mistakes; there shouldn't be many. Thanks!

And I forgot a disclaimer. The characters, settings, and some plot elements herein are not my own, I'm just borrowing them to tinker with.

The thing about unconsciousness is that, regardless of how many times you wake up from it, there is no "getting used" to having been involuntarily rendered cataleptic. I should know; I've woken from more than my fair share of violence-induced stupors. And let me tell you: it's a distasteful, painful and distinctly unpleasant experience. Every. Single. Time.

This occasion is no exception.

From the moment my consciousness spiraled back into my throbbing head a few moments ago, I've known something is off. Distantly, I register pain. I must not have reached full consciousness yet, I realize. I can't seem to feel myself normally. My thoughts are zooming hectically around my skull like a bunch of blind birds on speed, but I can't seem to focus on any one of them. It's like my head's been filled with cotton or steam… some form of gaseous solid, a hybrid of fiber and vapor.

But the millisecond that thought asserts itself, the almighty Voice of Science (which sounds uncannily like Bill Nye the Science Guy, incidentally) declares to the crowd of mad birds that a solid and a gas cannot be consolidated, being two distinct and disparate forms of matter.

But, rebuts the velvety Voice of Literary Principles, scientific theory does not apply to the metaphor, O Scientific Conscience. All things are elastic when one bends language to illustrate non-physical concepts, you see.

I sigh heavily. The varying facets of my intellect are engaged in debate.

Seems like things are back to normal.

I attempt to quash the Voices, realizing belatedly that I've awoken in an unknown environment. I take a moment to assess my situation, ignoring the continuing line of thought concerning the law versus the metaphor. My mind's eye conjures a tidy list.

I can't remember what made me lose consciousness.

That's not good. I hope that it just indicates sluggish memories due to physical and/or mental strain, and not brain damage. Last time I lost track of my own memories, I'd been possessed by a psycho alien robot thing.

Yeesh.

I can't recall the events preceding my loss of consciousness, though weird images are beginning to flash in my head, like a movie reel…

I set B. aside, for the moment. It's seems that this one may resolve itself, with any luck. This also bodes well for A.

I haven't got a clue where I am.

Hmm… This is never conducive to self-preservation. It makes me feel particularly vulnerable, lying on some unknown surface…

Wait…. Hmmm…. Yes. Yes, I can feel gradual sensation reach my synapses from the nerves of my body. _Ouch_. Doesn't feel so nice, as expected. I try to feel and listen and smell past the dull ache in my fuzzy head, but it's pretty distracting. You know, being excruciating and all.

There's a funny beeping noise sounding steadily from somewhere nearby. Beep. Beep. Beep. _Beep. Beep._ It's pretty irritating, now that I'm aware of it. Like that Japanese water-drop torture. I try to compartmentalize the annoyance.

The sterile smell of antiseptic confirms my suspicion that I'm in a medical facility. A modicum of relief eases the tension in me a little. At least, for the moment, I'm safe. I sigh, and I can feel the bitter air filling my lungs. Ugh. Yuck. Ouch!

Okay, now I'm back to full consciousness. There's no pretending otherwise, with the throbbing ache in my head and the nasty taste in my mouth and the incessant, infuriating beeping that _is driving me up a wall_.

I clench my fists at my sides, feeling cool linens between my fingers, and open my eyes.

The ceiling is smooth and metallic above me. Very professional and new age, reminiscent of the futuristic curves of Frank Lloyd Wright, who designed the great spiral of New York's Guggenheim Museum…

"Stop," I croak aloud, and only the shock of hearing my own hoarse voice halts that useless train of architectural thought. I sound… weak. Sort of feeble, like I've been languishing here in this bed for a lot longer than I guessed.

Frowning, I turn my head to observe my surroundings.

The infirmary (for that's what it obviously is) is compact and practical, clearly devised in favor of function over aesthetics. The medical supplies I glimpse within the clear, shiny cabinets are neatly organized and stacked according to frequency of use, I surmise based on the labels I can see. I occupy one of six beds, lined evenly along opposite walls. The unpracticed eye couldn't have made out any form of door, but I can see the control panel to what is plainly an authorized-accessible sliding-sheet door, camouflaged in the same gunmetal gray as the surrounding wall.

The infuriating beeping heart monitor reacts feverishly as I realize that there is no window of any sort. I have no way of knowing what building this unfamiliar medical unit belongs to. No way of knowing where I am.

"Okay, Rich," I say aloud, trying to take deep breaths. "Don't panic, don't panic…"

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, gripping a metallic table for balance, and drag myself to my feet.

The pain is pretty unbelievable. I immediately regret having stood up in the first place, but I'm determined to stay on my feet. I ride out the wave of vertigo that sends my tender head reeling and try not to cry out for my mommy. That could lead to humiliating repercussions, I acknowledge dimly.

After a long, agonizing, white-hot moment, the darkness recedes from my vision and I can see again. Well, sort of.

I squint around for my glasses, but there's no sign of them. I hadn't expected to find them anyway. I feel for my pocket, wondering if I'd left them in there, and realize, rather uncomfortably, that I'm wearing neither my normal school clothes nor Gear's green suit. I'm dressed in a funny wrap-around sort of shirt that ties at my side and a pair of loose, powder-blue trousers. I feel like some kind of surgeon.

"Seriously?" I ask no one. "This is ridiculous. Where are my clothes?"

A cursory search of the room yields no answers.

"Shit…" I murmur. Not only am I alone, disarmed, semi-blind and injured, I've not even got my own clothes for an ounce of comfort. With a heavy sigh of defeat, I make for the sealed door.

The control panel is fairly straightforward, I perceive as I kneel before it. It obviously requires some form of electronically-recognizable identification, waved directly below the single-directive sensor incorporated in the casing. I scoff.

Piece of cake.

Within seconds the casing is pried loose, a tiny red wire is pinched between my fingers, and a copper group of wires lies innocently beneath my poised hand. I turn my face away as I complete the circuit and a burst of sparks sputters at my fingertips.

The door slides silently open.

I chuckle a little arrogantly as I suck my singed fingers.

Time to find out where I am.

It isn't hard to locate the little observation deck a level up from the infirmary. All I do is calculate the most opportune directions to go based on the library of blueprints stashed away in my mind. Though dissimilar in design and unique in motif, this place really isn't very unlike any other function-oriented facility created by humans. My first observations as I escape the infirmary tell me as much.

Ten minutes of deliberate wandering later, I find… this.

This wide window looking down on the cobalt orb that is my home-planet.

I'm in space.

"Oh shit."

"Gear?"

I whirl around. Standing behind me, illuminated by Earth's bright glow, is Hawkgirl.

My mind grinds to a halt. I'm thoroughly baffled.

"Gear, what are you doing out of the infirmary?" she asks, eyes narrowing behind her dark mask. "Batman said you were in pretty bad shape."

I stare mutely. My eyes feel as wide as saucers.

Hawkgirl takes a step toward me, concern suddenly blossoming in her features. She stretches her hands toward me in a way that makes me feel like I'm made of glass.

"Are you okay?" she says.

My jaw flaps dumbly for a minute before everything rockets into overdrive.

I'm in space. Hawkgirl is here. Clearly I'm on the Watchtower, though how I missed that in the first place I can't fathom. I realize now, as plain as day, that the angle of Earth in the window behind me relative to the orbit pattern this station is following definitively proves that this is the Watchtower.

I'm on the Watchtower.

I'm safe.

"I… I was just…" I stammer, searching for some excuse. My malfunctioning brain can't seem to generate even the feeblest of lies… so I settle for the truth. "I didn't realize where I was. I guess I was trying to escape."

I laugh, ducking my head in embarrassment.

Hawkgirl releases a bright chuckle, planting her arm around me in a firm grasp. I lean into her support, suddenly aware of the burning pain behind my eyes.

"A little disoriented, huh?" she says cheerfully, placing her cool hand against my forehead. "I've done the same thing myself, once or twice. I smashed through the infirmary door and pulverized the third floor corridor before Superman came along and set me straight."

I laugh courteously, but my head is pounding and I can't seem to think straight now that the adrenaline has abated. She apparently notices the tension in my expression.

"Let's get you back to the infirmary," she says, dragging me along the way I came with astonishing strength. "Someone's sure to have missed you by now."

"Okay," I agree, mostly because I don't want to be rude by not responding. It's not like I have a choice in the matter, anyway.

We reach the infirmary faster than I think possible. I try to figure it back into the blueprints of the Watchtower I memorized when was summoned for repairs, but I can't cling to the idea long enough to bring it to fruition.

The door is open when we reach it. I'd forgotten to close it behind me.

"There you are."

I look up. Batman glares back at me. It occurs to me that I shouldn't be surprised to encounter Batman on the Watchtower, but I'm taken aback anyway.

"Hi," I say lamely, the fluttering birds in my head flapping distractingly.

Batman crosses his arms across his formidable chest as Hawkgirl lowers me onto the same bed I previously occupied. My head spins.

"Found him on the fourth floor observation deck," Hawkgirl explains calmly, turning away from me to face her colleague.

Batman refuses to look away from me as he addresses her. "He overrode the door codes."

Hawkgirl crosses to the door, bending over to scrutinize my handiwork. "I thought you reprogrammed the door codes to be unbreakable," she says conversationally.

"I did," Batman growls.

I try not to look smug.

"Gear," comes another voice from behind me, calm and deep. I turn to face a wall of green.

"Uh… hello," I blurt as I crick my neck back to see his odd face. J'onn smiles serenely down at me. I feel suddenly self-conscious, sitting here in my weird wrappy surgeon shirt surrounded by the most powerful heroes in the world. Well_, above_ the world, I amend, thinking of the blue sphere outside the observation deck window.

My internal dialogue likes to be specific.

"How are you feeling, Gear?" J'onn asks mildly, surveying me with unnerving scarlet eyes. I try to focus on his face.

Uh… okay, I guess."

"The truth," Batman hisses. He manages to make those two little words feel like a threat. I swallow, then turn my eyes back to the Martian above me.

"I can't see well," I say nervously. "And my head hurts a little. What happened? Why the hell am I on the Watchtower?"

Batman steps forward, looming at my bedside. I feel the overwhelming urge to stand up. I don't like these people towering over me like this.

"Static contacted me two days ago," Batman explains straightforwardly. "You'd collapsed on a rooftop in Dakota, bleeding heavily from the nose."

The scene comes flooding back to me. My face flushes hot. I suppress the impulse to bury my face in my hands like a three-year-old. "Oh yeah."

"I've been observing you here in the infirmary since then," J'onn said quietly, green hands folded placidly before him.

I remember now. I close my eyes, recalling the impossible pain that I'd hidden from V for weeks… the increasingly severe headache that led me to constant distraction and frequent despair. I remember the thoughts that plagued me, the barrage of theories and calculations and facts and voices that filled my head at all times; the maelstrom of thought that beat me into insomnia, undernourishment, depression. I remember mumbling the countless, random thoughts to myself as I sat alone on that rooftop, praying that saying them aloud would afford me some degree of relief… hoping, despite the evidence disproving it, that I wasn't actually going mad… that there was some explanation that wasn't insanity, all the while knowing that it couldn't be so.

I remember V's stricken face when he followed me to my roof, when he stepped out from behind that stupid barrel (why was there a barrel on the roof anyway?) and confronted me about my deep, dark secret. I remember his bloody finger, hovering before my eyes, and realizing the implications of a nosebleed coupled with the mental occurrences I'd recently experienced… I should _never _have read that series of medical journals…

And I clearly recall thinking, "I'm passing out," before Virgil's stunned face faded into white blackness.

"Shit," I mutter.

"He's pretty fond of that word," Harkgirl observes blithely.

J'onn and I are alone. He's asked the others to leave. The infirmary is quiet.

He eyes me watchfully, as inscrutable as ever. I try to meet his unfathomable gaze with one of my own, but I'm pretty sure I fail. I've never been good at 'enigmatic' or 'expressionless'.

"What?" I ask finally, to break the icy tension. I squirm uncomfortably under his gaze.

"You are a mystery to me, Gear," he responds steadily. "Your mind works in a way unlike any other human I've encountered."

Hmm. So maybe I'm better at 'enigmatic' than I thought.

"Uh… sorry," I say, for lack of a better response. "But in my defense, I'm not necessarily 'human' anymore if you take into account the change in genetic code that the Bang Gas stimulates."

J'onn smiles faintly. "Indeed."

I shift awkwardly again. The guy's really no good at carrying on a conversation.

"So… my mind."

"Yes?"

"It's… different, you say?"

"'Remarkable' might be a more accurate term."

"Okay, remarkable. So… you must have, uh, poked around in there while I was out, in order to notice its… remarkable-ness. Right?"

J'onn has the decency to incline his head. "I apologize for the intrusion, Gear. I deemed it necessary, due to your unexplained unconsciousness."

"Gotcha," I reply, waving off his apology with a careless hand. "I don't mind that, as long as you didn't dig too deep. What I want to know is what you found."

"I found that you are truly in possession of an exceptional and matchless intellect. I have known nothing like it in my many years as a guest of your planet, and I have known many of the brightest minds your planet has produced. None in the Justice League will underestimate your aptitude again, if ever we have done so in the past."

I blush hot. Once again, I feel the need to hide my face like a little girl. I have no idea what to do with J'onn's praise… so I ignore it. "Uh… okay. And what about my… uh… my problem? Is my 'matchless intellect' driving me… you know, over the deep end?"

J'onn is quiet for a moment, observing me. I'm pretty sure he's deliberately trying to drag out the agony. Finally, he speaks.

"Your powers are unique, as individual to you as Static's are to him." He addresses me with a smooth voice, but a speculative cock to his eyebrow (or what would be his eyebrow if he weren't eyebrowless) sets me on edge. "Thus, there is no precedence to draw upon. However, I feel as if I've gained a grasp upon the ailment that weakens you. The fact that I was able to coax you back to the realm of consciousness is confirmation of this."

He is quiet for another moment, but it looks as if he is simply organizing his thoughts, so I allow him the silence. He nods once, then continues.

"To put it simply, your powers are… evolving, one might say. Your mind is becoming more capable than the human brain is built to be, and it is taking its toll upon your health. I note that your weight is less than would be healthy in one of your height. You are paler than normal, I am told. And the profuse bleeding from your nose was caused by a hemorrhaged vessel in your head." At my alarmed look, J'onn amends, "I've repaired the damage to the best of my abilities, though it may reopen should the stressor reassert itself."

I nod slowly, processing this. Surprisingly, it doesn't surprise me. Everything that he tells me sort of… fits, like I already knew it all, but didn't quite realize it. I feel strangely calm.

"Alright," I say, carefully, as if tasting the feel of the word. "Alright, that seems right. But how did you stop it? I can concentrate better now, more than I've been able to for weeks. What did you do?"

J'onn inhales deeply. "I'm afraid I haven't halted the symptoms of your ailment, only suppressed them temporarily. I have yet to discover a solution to this dilemma, though I had hoped that you could assist me in the search. That was my primary motive in containing your excess thoughts and attempting to draw you to wakefulness."

"You wanted me to help you save me?"

"Precisely."

I sigh, feeling suddenly forlorn.

"Can't you just continue to block the crazy thoughts? I mean, it's working now." Well.. sort of… I consider my confusion upon my awakening, the staggering length of time it took me to realize the fairly obvious fact that I am on the Watchtower. It unnerves me.

He shakes his head. "That course of action would lead to severe, perhaps irreversible mental and physical harm, I'm afraid. Prolonged mental interference, especially in a mind as profoundly advanced as yours, taxes the body and psyche more than you know."

"Great." Just what I need… a damaged psyche. Irreversible mental harm. Awesome. "So what happens if we don't find a solution? What happens if you remove the block, and just leave me to it?"

The first emotion I've seen flits across his face. He looks grim and distressed … that's not good. "I believe that the result of such action would be the continuation of your physical decline and mental deterioration. I fear that the assault of your complex and copious thoughts would beat you into insanity and, perhaps, death, from the strain of it all."

I sort of expected this answer. After all, a few days ago I was convinced I was already crazy. But still, it isn't pleasant to hear confirmation from one so competent as the Martian. I feel a little sick.

"Excellent," I moan acerbically. "This is great…"

"I believe, Gear, that this news is less that excellent. Dire, is perhaps a preferable term."

"Yeah, dire works," I snort sardonically. With an exaggerated sigh, I flop backward onto the bed, splaying my arms and legs. I stare blankly at the Frank Lloyd Wright ceiling.

A sudden curiosity grips me.

"Hey… where's Static?"

J'onn smiles now, and for the first time I feel at ease in his presence. He should smile more often, I decide.

"I wondered when you would inquire after your friend. He has been on the Watchtower since we brought the two of you here two days ago. He's been… rather ill-tempered. I only convinced him to leave your side this evening after a long and unpleasant argument, and I assume he is still asleep after his long vigil at your bedside. It is now very late in the night."

I smile, thinking of Virgil seated grumpily beside me, watching me sourly and barking at the League members. It seems characteristic of him. But something niggles at my thoughts. I voice it.

"What about Dakota? A lot can happen when we aren't around to keep her in line…"

J'onn benignly nods his head. "The Flash has included Dakota in his patrol schedule and has been maintaining peace there in your absence."

A part of me I haven't realized is taught relaxes. "That's good."

J'onn smiles. "Any other questions? You should sleep; your body and mind are still exhausted."

"One more: where's Backpack?"

"Your small robot?"

I nod.

"It has remained in Static's presence since your collapse. I believe it has caused him… some degree of annoyance."

I chuckle. "Yeah, I guessed that's where it'd be. It's programmed to, you see. If I'm rendered unconscious or otherwise incapable of combat, or if I deliver the vocal command, its encoded to lock onto Static's unique electromagnetic signal and remain in his proximity until I return, awaken, or die. In which case all functions are permanently deactivated except for a data panel, which can be accessed by Virgil's vocal command alone… that is, if I can ever get him to remember it…" I fade off, realizing belatedly and uncomfortably that I'm babbling.

J'onn simply smiles. "Remarkable," he says. "If you have other questions, I'm afraid they must wait until you awaken. You are free to go where you will, though you've already proven that our most sophisticated technology cannot hold you, anyway. However, I must request that you sleep tonight. I am concerned for you, though your symptoms seem, for the time being, tolerable. Please, rest."

I nod, and J'onn moves toward the exit. With a serene smile, he departs, leaving me to ponder my undecipherable fate.

"Well," I tell myself as exhaustion nudges me toward sleep, "at least I'm not dead."

With that cheerful consolation, flicking aside the noisy, flapping Voices in the back of my head with startling ease, I sink into warm slumber.


	3. Chapter 3

This still does not belong to me. I'm just a borrower, not a creator. Once again, forgive grammatical, spelling, or continuity errors. To be honest I'm not super familiar with the genre, so there's a great chance that I've screwed something up. Kindly disregard it, when you find it.

I'm going to finish Backpack off. I swear to all that's holy, I'm going to obliterate the stupid thing.

After much objection, several arguments, and a liberal helping of profanity, I'd finally, reluctantly fallen into an edgy slumber, and despite my hesitation to leave Richie's side, it had felt stupendous. I guess I hadn't realized how exhausted I was after the strain of the last two days, but the moment my head hit that blessedly squashy pillow, I'd tumbled off into Dreamland. I was dead to the world, so comfortable, so warm…

Then, that stupid little piece of scrap metal dragged me back to reality with a gratuitously sharp jab to my chest. The damn thing _accosted_ me into wakefulness, and despite all my protests it refused to let me settle back into merciful slumber.

Yeah, I'm ready to zap the little sucker.

So here I sit, rubbing my gritty eyes against the fluorescent lighting and massaging my stiff back, groaning. I blink irritably at the dull, nondescript room 'Jonn virtually hurled me into hours ago, trying to ignore the aggravating string of beeps and chirps issuing from the robot clinging to my legs. I kick petulantly at it.

"Shut up!" I moan.

Backpack does not comply.

"Damn it, what's your problem? Leave me alone!"

Backpack ignores me.

I seize the thing, trying to prize its sharp claws loose from around my thighs. "Let… go!"

Backpack clings tighter.

"Ugh!" I grunt, flopping backward onto the narrow bed. The robot falls with me, clambering upward to nestle itself on my chest. It extends its creepy little eye sensor thing, and I get the distinct feeling that Backpack is glaring at me. I scowl back.

"What do you want from me?" I beg. To my surprise, it furnishes an answer.

A little data panel flips upward from its hard casing, tilting cooperatively toward me, and words flash across the glowing green screen. I hoist myself onto my elbows to read them.

'_Important Alert: Provide vocal command.'_

Crap.

I know what Backpack wants. I know that it's waiting for me to say those stupid, elusive little words… A dozen arguments with Richie come marching through my memory, and I mash my face between my hands, properly abashed. How long has he been pestering me to memorize his stupid password? How many times has he quizzed me on the words, and how many times have I failed epically to recall even one of them? How many times have I carelessly brushed off his concern?

"_V, man, this is important! Just try to remember them, for me."_

"_Rich, I _never _remember them. What makes you think this time'll be any different? Don't worry about it, it's not like I'll ever need the stupid password anyway…"_

"_You don't know that, Virgil! Considering the danger Static and Gear are subjected to on an almost daily basis, the chances of me being taken out of commission are alarmingly high, especially if one bears in mind my general ineptitude at close combat. You need to know this!"_

"_Nothing's gonna happen to you, Richie, and you're fine at close combat! Not as awesome as me, obviously, but you hold your own. Now come on, I've got a hankering for Thai. Want some glassy noodles, good buddy?"_

I groan, slapping my palms against my cheeks.

"I'm an idiot."

Backpack chirps approvingly. The data screen flashes twice, and a procession of words glide across it.

'_Vocal command accepted.'_

I blink.

'I'm an idiot' is the password? What happened to the complicated collection of words Richie so diligently schooled me in? It occurs to me that he must have anticipated this. He knew I'd never remember his crazy-complex phrase, so he picked the thing he knew I'd say when I realized that… I'm an idiot. Awesome.

"Thanks a lot, Richie," I murmur mutinously, but I lean forward to peer nervously at the little data screen, wondering what this Important Alert can be. My stomach performs a sick little back flip as I wait for the operating systems to translate their code into English for my average little brain. And finally…

'_Static recognized,' _It reads, tweeting affirmatively once more. _'Alert: Maker is conscious. Please take this Backpack unit to Maker immediately.'_

I sit dumbstruck for a minute, squinting at the screen. Backpack replays the message, apparently thinking I've missed it.

And finally, the words register in my sluggish brain.

I'm out the door, shoes in hand, before Backpack can latch onto me.

The door to the Infirmary is closed. It's distinctly doorknob-less. I fix it with my steeliest glower, trying to work out what to do.

I ponder the conundrum, wondering almost frantically what's going on behind that effing door…Is Richie alright in there, I wonder? Is there something happening inside that I'm not supposed to be a part of? I snort irreverently. As if they could keep me out of the loop when I want to be a in it. Stupid, arrogant, self-satisfied _Justice League…_

Backpack's catches up with me. It takes hold of my pant leg and scurries into position, planting itself against my back in a disgruntled kind of way. I ignore it.

Of course, I acknowledge, I could easily tear the damn door out of the wall. It wouldn't even expend much power, after the nap I just enjoyed... But somehow, I can't imagine that going down well with a team of all-powerful superheroes who save the earth on a regular basis. I think of Hawkgirl's nasty mace, Wonder Woman's iron fists, Batman's crazy exploding boomerang thingies… Naw, I don't really want to risk losing any appendages, today.

I wonder if it's appropriate to just knock on a big metal door inside the Justice League's almighty Watchtower. It seems a little… archaic. But what the hell, I'm an old-fashioned kind of guy. I bang my fist against the surface.

"Hey!" I shout, going for a nice, tangy blend of 'obnoxious' and 'grating'. "Hey, let me in there! I know Gear's awake, so open up!"

There's a short silence. Leaning up against the door, I flatten my ear against the cold metal, holding my breath. I think I can hear a faint, scratchy, nails-on-the-chalkboard sort of noise, but it's hard to tell…

The door slides smoothly open, and I topple to the ground with a shamefully high-pitched cry and a tremendous crash.

I'm immediately greeted by a familiar snort.

"Very smooth, Static. So light on your feet."

Hardly daring to believe my ears, I roll to my knees.

Richie is kneeling at my side, grinning, sucking the tips of his fingers. A control panel lays open in the wall, next to the open door.

I can't come up with a snappy retort. I can't come up with _words._ I just sit there, gaping dumbly at my friend and looking, I'm sure, a lot like a dehydrated halibut.

He looks better. _A lot_ better. His face is still disquietingly pale, and his weird, saggy, hospital-y clothes fit him in a way that accentuates his unhealthy skinniness, but those familiar blue eyes shine with comfortable laughter, and a smug smile is planted complacently on his dry lips. He looks alright. He looks alive. He looks like Richie.

He lets out a surprised squawk as I drag him into a hug.

"I'm so glad you're okay," I rasp into his shoulder, clutching him.

"Thanks, dude," he responds laughingly. I feel him pat my back reassuringly. "Me too."

I pull back, leaving my hands on his shoulders, and meet his eyes.

"You in any pain?"

Richie shrugs. "Just a little headache, but it's nothing compared to before."

I nod. "Good."

And I sock his right shoulder as hard as I can.

"_Ow!_" he yells, weakly whacking my hand away. "Damn it, what the hell was that for?"

"That," I snarl, "is for keeping this whole…" I fumble for words, gesturing wildly at his tousled head, "…_mind_ … thing… a secret from me! That's for making me go all stealth-mode on your sorry butt, just to figure out what your problem was! If you didn't look like a kid in the chemo ward right now, I'd kick your ass into next Thursday, you _bastard_!"

Richie watches my explosion with raised eyebrows. He opens his mouth to respond, but I cut him off.

"And if you don't call your damn robot off of me, I'm going to _fry _it, I swear I will! The stupid thing hasn't left me alone since we got here. And what the hell is that password thing about? 'I'm an idiot'? Funny joke, Richie!"

At this he crosses his arms over his chest and meets my glare with a livid stare of his own. "Well what do you expect from me?" he says. "You wouldn't learn the freaking password, you idiot! Of course I had to create a contingency plan!"

"A contingency plan involving insulting your best friend?"

"Yeah!" Richie retorted, a haughty smile playing on his lips. "Absolutely! And think about it: if I'd died, I'd have totally gotten the last word! You can't beat a post-mortem burn!"

That stings. Something inside my chest burns with sudden intensity at that phrase… 'If I'd died…'

"That's not funny," I mutter. "Don't joke about that."

He rolls his eyes, heaving himself to his feet. "Don't be so dramatic!" he says as he kicks the control panel shut. "I wouldn't have hacked the door and let you in if I'd known you just wanted to harass me, that's for sure. Backpack, come!"

The robot clambers off my back (finally) and scurries obediently to its maker's feet, where it climbs into his arms like some psycho metal cat. I aim a scowl at it.

I stand and follow Richie as he staggers to a bed on the far wall. He collapses onto it with exaggerated gentleness. I try not to panic at the pained expression on his face.

Richie apparently notices my concern.

"My head," he supplies in a low voice. "It's… uh… not in the greatest shape, as you may have guessed."

"Yeah," I murmur, "I talked to 'Jonn. Sorry if you didn't want him to tell me, I just… I had to… I wanted…"

Richie rolls his eyes again, but he smiles fondly at me. "It doesn't matter if you know. I'd have told you anyway."

Warmth fills my chest. I hear the double meaning in his quiet words. He wants me to know… he isn't going to hide it from me anymore. Coming from Richie, it's as good as an apology. I grin back at him.

I watch as he flips a catch in Backpack's casing; a compartment opens. He removes a scratched pair of glasses, an older pair.

"Ah!" he sighs as he shoves them onto his nose. "Vision, thou blessed sense! I am _so_ done with the blind badass shtick. Though I wish I had my current prescription… You don't happen to know where my other pair got to, do you?"

"Sorry, Gear. I had other things on my mind when we got here." I try not to recall the frenzy of activity that day; the blood and the speculations and the gut-wrenching, mind-numbing fear….

He finally has the decency to look sheepish. "Yeah… good call on buzzing the League, by the way."

I snort, trying to muscle past the memories that still blaze before my eyes. "Couldn't really take you to Dakota General, man. 'Hey, this is Gear. He's got a Bang Baby problem that no one understands, please fix him. Oh, and if you could leave his helmet on to preserve his identity, that'd be great.' As if."

He smiles tiredly. "Guess so."

We fall into contented silence. Richie leans his head back, closing his eyes, but I can tell by the rhythm of his breathing that he isn't asleep. I scrutinize him, watching the even rise and fall of his chest, the idle motions of his fingers, entwined over his stomach. It hits me now, with all the force of a waterfall: Richie's alive. He's breathing, he's moving, and he's definitely, definitely alive. The panic of that first day, the simmering dread that had boiled in my core since then… it's finally starting to melt away. 'Jonn told me again and again that he was alive, that, at least for the time being, he was alright. I listened and I tried so hard to trust him, but I couldn't make my heart believe it. I couldn't blink away the image of him on that rooftop, bleeding and afraid and half-crazy with pain; I couldn't shake off the feeling of him wilting into my arms, blood seeping into the fabric of my shirt.

But now, seeing him with my own eyes, watching him _live_… The relief is more profound than I could have anticipated. I feel like a drowning man who's finally reached the surface.

It's awesome.

I reach out and grip one of his cold hands in mine, squeezing it tight between my palms. A smile flutters on his relaxed face, though his eyes remain closed, and he squeezes back.

We are shaken from our calm moment by piercing voices in the hall.

"Put me down, for God's sake! I'm not dying!"

"Will you shut up and let us help you?"

"No! No I will not let you help me, so why don't you give up and run along now!"

"Flash, just settle down. You should not even be standing in your state, let alone dashing off to the Infirmary on your own. Relax and let us help you!"

"Ugh, you people are impossible to reason with!"

Richie and I exchange a curious glance. I quirk an eyebrow. He shrugs. The door glides open with the softest of hisses.

We watch as Green Lantern and Wonder Woman stride in, both, strangely, lacking the customary stateliness with which I'd always seen them move. 'Staggering' might be the appropriate term. Between them, in a drooping position devoid of any dignity whatsoever, they drag a struggling, bedraggled, and faintly smoking Flash.

"Damn it, this is humiliating!" he wails as he catches sight of the two of us. "Put me down!"

Wonder Woman and Green Lantern swap supremely irritated looks, then drop him brusquely onto a narrow infirmary bed. The Flash lands with a heavy thump.

"OW!" he howls, curling his arms around his chest. "Why? Why must you torment me?"

"Shut up!" Green Lantern snaps, turning to the medicinal cabinet hastily. He gathers an armful of materials while Wonder Woman cuts away what's left of the Flash's thrashed uniform, baring his pale chest. I wince when I catch sight of an assortment of disturbingly familiar-looking burns.

To my surprise, Flash meets my eyes, grimacing sullenly.

"Uh… hi," I say, waving uncertainly at the belligerent hero.

"What's up?" Richie greets awkwardly.

"It is good to see you awake, Gear," Wonder Woman smiles kindly, tearing tattered bits of red fabric from the Flash's painful-looking burns.

"Yeah, great," the Flash grumbles, "Welcome back to the land of the living. Have a nice sleep? Because while you were having a tranquil snooze up here in space, I was out getting my ass kicked by that psycho gang-bangin' fire-kid down in Dakota!"

"You ran into Hotstreak?" I ask loudly, hopping to my feet excitedly. "What happened?"

"That little freak was terrorizing some school kids for who knows what reason, and the crazy bastard lit me on fire! _On fire!_ Only reason he got the edge on me was because he kept grabbing little kids and chucking them at me! Chucking kids! What the hell is _wrong _with that guy?"

"Believe me dude," Richie chuckles, shaking his head, "I ask myself that question all the time."

"Was anyone hurt?" I ask.

"Yeah! Me!"

"Anyone else?" Richie prompts.

The Flash shoots us a pained, cheeky smile, winking. "Jeez, have a little faith! I'm better than that. Not a scratch on anyone, aside from yours truly and that nutty fire-bug. I _may_ have gone a teensy bit overboard on him… Don't think he'll be throwing children at people anytime soon."

"Ha!" I laugh, trying to picture the scene. "Serves him right; Hotsteak needed taken down a notch or two. I'm glad he got a taste of justice from a _real_ superhero!"

The Flash shakes his head. "Kid, that Hotstreak is a hardcore baddie. And the other day I met a creepy shadow fella down there in Dakota, name of Blacky or something like that, who's nastier than all the villains I took out in my early days. You two take care of thugs like that on a regular basis… I'll tell ya, you _are_ real heroes in my book."

Wonder Woman nods, beaming disarmingly at us.

"Couldn't agree more," Green Lantern agrees, eyeing us approvingly.

I glance askance at Rich, who is blushing self-consciously. I laugh nervously, scratching at the back of my head, and stare determinedly at my shoes. "Well… thanks," I manage to say.

"Anytime," the Flash replies confidently. "You know, I—argh! Shit, G.L.! You're _killing _me!"

"Don't be a baby!" Lantern sighs, carefully masking a smile I barely notice. He dabs steadfastly at the wounds, ignoring his patient's piteous moans. "You've had much worse than this."

"And with your metabolism," Wonder Woman supplies, "You'll be out of here in no time."

"That doesn't change the fact that _you're killing me!_"

I turn to face my partner, struggling to suppress the giggles bubbling in my throat. He stalwartly avoids my gaze, but I can see the corners of his mouth tensing. Neither of us tries to speak until Wonder Woman and Green Lantern finish, clean up, and depart.

They're quiet, but as they pass Richie's bed, Green Lantern leans casually toward us.

"Sorry to leave you with him." He jerks his head toward a dozing Flash. "He'll be annoying as hell. I'm glad to see you're better, Gear. If you need anything, let me know."

Richie offers a mock-salute, smiling sincerely. "Will do, sir."

Lantern offers me a wink and makes for the exit. Wonder Woman nods respectfully at each of us, touches Richie's shoulder briefly, then follows her companion out.

The Infirmary falls eerily quiet.

"Dude," I say, gazing distractedly the closed door, "Our lives are nuts."

He's studying the place where Wonder Woman's hand fell on his shoulder, eyes wide. "No kidding," he mumbles.


	4. Chapter 4

I really appreciate my two reviews! It means a lot to me to hear feedback on something I've written; these words have lived in the dark, dusty files of my computer for so long, I could hardly imagined them actually being read and enjoyed. Thank you! Here is another installment. There is a good deal of genius-babble from this point on, and because I'm no genius I obviously had to fabricate it all. So the Richie's "genius talk" is a load of crap and I know it. PLEASE forgive the embarrassing incomprehensibility; if you are some sort of professional in any field I pretend to delve into henceforth, please ignore the shortcomings in favor of a good story. Or just save me the humiliation and don't read it. Thanks to all!

These characters and settings are still not mine. I don't deserve or want credit for anything but my story. We're back in Richie's perspective now.

"Hey Flash."

He looks up from some book he'd been flipping half-heartedly through. I try to hold my hands still.

"Yeah?" he says coolly. Funny how a guy can manage to look cool in a hospital bed wearing a mask, about twenty bandages, and no shirt. I wish I was capable of being a badass…

"I've had an idea."

He smiles, leaning forward eagerly. "Do tell, Gear! I'm endlessly intrigued by these 'ideas' you and Static so effectively cook up."

"Well… it's a pretty bad idea."

His grin broadens considerably. "Even better!"

A hiccupy, nervous laugh forces its way from my throat. My head pounds in tandem with my thrumming heartbeat. "It's… well, it's got to do with a tender sort of subject."

He cocks a questioning eyebrow.

I start again, praying I don't look as twitchy as I feel. My head is killing me… "Listen," I blurt, "I really don't want to make any invincible, all-powerful superheroes mad at me, and I _really_ can't afford to provoke any intergalactic conflicts or incite any personal vendettas against me, being, you know… seventeen… but I've thought it through and there's virtually no danger to anyone but me, otherwise I would never try it… But it's still a touchy topic. I mean, _really_ touchy."

The Flash is watching me warily. I've got this sudden, inexplicable compulsion to flee.

"What are you talking about, kid?"

I swallow, anxiously knitting my fingers together. "Well," I murmur, trying to look unconcerned, "I think that I can stop myself from losing my last marble. I think I know how."

The Flash's eyes spark with enthusiasm. "That's great, Gear! I knew you'd figure it out; you're twice as smart as Batman on a good day! What's the solution?"

"Well…" I say uncertainly, squinting intently at a speck on the ceiling, "It involves Braniac."

There's a long silence. It takes me longer than I'd admit to work up the courage to look at the Flash. When I manage it, his expression is indecipherable behind his scarlet mask, but his eyes are trained fixedly on me.

A knot of fear congeals in my throat. I know the risks involved in presenting such a sketchy plan; I meticulously catalogued them even as I cultivated this foolish idea. And among them, the possibility that I dread the most is that the Justice League will presume that I'm once again under Braniac's influence, as soon as I mention his name. I watch for the accusation in the Flash's eyes.

After a long, pointed pause, he gestures to the foot of his bed. I sit on the very edge, my stomach churning apprehensively. I push aside the ache behind my eyes.

"I think you should explain your idea," he says delicately.

What can I say? Anxiety makes me chatty. Without preamble, I stand up and launch into an exhaustive discourse.

"Well, the subliminal, intuitive, and memory-associated sections of cerebral cortex have been known to preserve recollections over which the cognizant psyche and intellect have no influence. There's documentation suggesting that that extraordinary phenomena, most notably environmentally natural, but presumably including artificial and synthetic occurrences and even manipulations such as my encounter with Braniac, can remain intact within the subconscious, regardless of conscious awareness. Furthermore, correlation with not only a superior but a _sentient_ external manipulator increases the possibility that the cortex will retain and even safeguard the recollections of the contact period, due to the predilection of the human brain to enact forcible amnesia as a defensive mechanism incorporated, presumably, in the physiological and psychosomatic structure of the sentient mind. So all I have to do is access the fundamental subdivision of the vanguard region of the cortex in which these instinctively concealed pseudo-memories are stored, and hope that the convergence of Braniac's processing-oriented intellect and my highly-evolved mind formed the sort of circumstance in which my altered cortex instigated a sub-cognizant information 'pocket', in a manner of speaking, and that it absorbed not only my extraneous thoughts, but those of Braniac as well. My hope is that I can access a specific data registry involving integrated research; specifically, the analyses and paradigms I had constructed prior to the contact period supplemented by the accumulated data in the integral collective directory of Braniac's coding. With 'Jonn's help, it'd be a piece of cake! See?"

Flash blinks. He blinks again. The silence falls thickly between us like a sodden blanket.

And finally, he speaks.

"Man," he says breathlessly, "The only bit of that I caught was the part about cake."

"Yeah," comes a voice from behind me, "I caught most of the 'and's and 'but's. And all of the 'Braniac's."

I pivot on my heel. My mind comes screeching to a dead halt.

Standing in the doorway is… oh my God… Superman himself. The big guy. The boy in blue. Mr. Tall-Buildings-In-A-Single-Bound in all his caped glory. It's possible that I've become incontinent within the last three seconds.

Batman lurks at his side, looking bigger and scarier than I imagined possible. His utility belt seems to sparkle with intimidation; I can already feel those boomerang things skewering me into Swiss cheese.

Superman shifts farther into the room and, to my horror, I glimpse the tips of Hawkgirl's wings over his impossibly vast shoulder, the gleam of Wonder Woman's gold wristband past his elbow. I surmise that all or most of the League is standing in the hall, out of my line of sight… prepared to mince me into ground chuck at the drop of a hat.

"Oh my God," I moan feebly, sinking bonelessly onto a vacant bed. "I'm dead!"

Flash is on his feet in a heartbeat, and to my distant shock, he lowers a tentative hand onto my shoulder. I stare vacantly up at him; he's looking at his colleagues. His expression is stern.

My mind kicks into overdrive. I can see what's going to happen already; I plot out the scenario, start to finish, before I realize I've done it. They're going to lock me up, they're not going to let me go until they find whatever trace of Braniac that's possessing me… only they're never going to find it because it's not there; I'm not possessed, I'm just an unbelievably stupid kid who made an unbelievably stupid mistake under the noses of some of the most powerful beings in the freaking cosmos...

It's a second before I'm capable of hearing the Flash's voice behind the tell-tale sounds of a massive stroke rushing in my ears.

"It's fine, Gear, no one's going to hurt you," he's insisting quietly. "They're not here to hurt you, I just called Supes down to hear your idea… Jeez, guys, could you be any more intimidating?"

"Is he alright?" I hear Superman ask. My head's full of cotton and steam again; I can't seem to systematize my chaotic thoughts…

"He was terrified to bring up Braniac, Supes. For good reason, obviously. You've gotta cut him some slack, he's just a kid…"

"A kid who was recently possessed by a devastating intergalactic virus," comes the ominous voice of Batman.

"Look at him, Bats! He can hardly stand on his feet, what harm do you think he's going to do us?"

"What was it that he was saying just now? His idea?" Green Lantern says.

"Something about latent memories, I believe," Batman responds. "He'll need to explain it again."

"That's enough!" Hawkgirl's voice is harsh and resolute. I see her snake elegantly through the crowd of her colleagues, coming to stand before me. I feel her cool hand against my face, and realize only then that I feel… _really_ hot…

"God, he's burning up!" she hisses, turning away to face the others. "Get 'Jonn down here, something's happened. I think he's getting worse."

I feel like I should provide some reaction to that, but nothing appropriate comes to mind. So I sit there dumbly, blinking at the weird green spots that keep dancing in my vision… must be these scratched old glasses…

"Gear," she murmurs, and I strive to focus on her face. It's harder than I think it should be. "Gear focus on me, alright? Stay awake."

"Yeah," I stammer faintly, fighting to make my voice sound normal. "I'm… I'm awake. I th-think you guys should… should use plutonium instead of u-uranium to boost the power coupling intake in the… lower level conduits. It could fix the output inconsistencies you've probably been seeing…"

"What's he talking about?" I hear someone mumble.

"Sorry I mentioned it," I continue, hardly realizing I'm still talking. Things are tilting dangerously around me; I close my eyes against the vertigo. "Shouldn't have brought up B-Braniac… bad plan. I'm an idiot. But I can fix it, I c… I can upgrade your systems, I can make the Watchtower better. D'you think that'll make them forget it?"

When I open my eyes, Hawkgirl looks… sort of sad. For some reason her arms are around me, and there are other hands at the base of my neck and around my head, and my back is against some hard surface… Oh. I'm laying down now. It seems like I'm on the floor. When did I lay down here?

"Gear?" Flash says, and I try to catch his face with my eyes. It keeps moving.

"Yeah, still here," I mutter. I sniff wetly, because I've apparently gotten a shockingly runny nose. I can feel the warmth of it on my face. How humiliating. I suddenly wish these people would leave… I'd rather endure this embarrassment on my own than have the whole of the effing Justice League swarming around me, witnessing my dizzy, snotty shame, thanks very much.

My head pulsates excruciatingly, and I take it back. I don't want to be alone. I want someone who's seen my snotty face before, someone who doesn't care… someone who played videogames and watched movies with me as I languished in bed with pneumonia.

"Hey," I say. "Where's Static? I'd… I'd like Static to be here, if you can… if you can find him. Please."

"He's on his way," someone answers. Green Lantern? Superman?

"That's… that's good. Thank you."

I can hear the hiss of the piston-driven door mechanism. A wonderful piece of machinery, really. Perfectly balanced. I wonder for a moment who created that lovely door…

Then Virgil is here. His face is hovering and dancing over me in disturbingly detached way, but I smile anyway.

"Hey, V," I say, in a voice that doesn't sound like mine.

His face is twisted into an expression I don't like. It makes him look like he's in pain. I wonder what's the matter with him. "What happened?" he hisses, eyes darting right and left. "What… what happened?"

"I'm fine," I insist, attentively enunciating each syllable because the cotton in my fuzzy head has spread to my mouth, and the words aren't forming properly. "Stop panicking."

In response, he swabs his thumb beneath my nose, just like before. And just like before, it comes away scarlet. Hmm. Blood. So… it's not just a runny nose. That's… that's probably not good.

"Well," I say dully, "that sort of d-discredits my defense."

And I fall backward into darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

We've swung back into Virgil's perspective again. I know I'm switching back and forth a little sporadically, but certain scenes just call irresistably for the voice of one character or the other. Who am I to deny the voices in my head? Ha. That's a joke. I hope you enjoy this chapter; it's a little more centered around the internal working of the Justice League, and how the members are feeling about all this. If you enjoy it I would love a review, but no pressure. They just feel so nice.

These are neither my characters nor my settings.

'Jonn surges forward to open the door, and it slides smoothly open ahead of me. Without hesitation, I tumble blindly through, only to find myself rocketing into the midst of the Justice League. The _entire_ Justice League.

I suddenly feel very small and very weak.

"Where is he?" I choke, and Wonder Woman looks at me with chillingly kind eyes. Alarms immediately start shrieking in my head. She takes hold of my arm and propels me forward, past the hulking figures of Superman and Batman, and the room opens up before me.

Hawkgirl is cradling him gingerly against her chest, as if she caught him mid-fall; her hands are gentle against his pale, pale skin. The Flash holds his head away from the ground, staring at him with wide, startled eyes.

I collapse to my knees at his side, heart captured in a steel vice. It's just like before… Just like on the rooftop…

"Hey, V," Richie says, past the blood that's streaming from his nose.

"What happened?" I demand, disbelievingly surveying his drooping, quivering form. "What… what happened?"

"I'm fine. Stop panicking," Richie mutters with obvious effort.

Ha. He's got to be kidding me. That's some sort of joke. Stop panicking? When my best friend is crumpled on the cold floor, paper-white, trembling like an aspen in a hurricane, and bleeding profusely? _Stop panicking?_

I can't muster words for him. My voice is choked off by the lump swelling in my throat. I can only reach out to him, to my fallen best friend, and dab my thumb into the pool of hot redness collecting on his upper lip. I draw back, letting him glimpse my sodden finger.

"Well," he says, in an extraordinarily clear voice, "that sort of d-discredits my defense."

And he sinks into Hawkgirl's arms, lifeless.

I'll admit it, I've participated in my fair share of delinquent activities. I grew up in downtown Dakota, for Pete's sake! It couldn't really be avoided. I know everyone who knows me considers me the "good kid", and for the most part I've tried to live up to that title. But things happen, situations spring up, people influence you, and sometimes you end up doing things you don't want to go home and tell Pops about. Yeah, Richie and I have made plenty of mistakes over the years: we've tasted things we shouldn't have, we've done a bit of what we call 'sneaking' (but most people would refer to as trespassing), we've hung out with… ahem… less-than-model citizens…

But nothing, I mean _nothing_ I've done holds a candle to this.

The little handheld device is whining with feedback. I gnaw my lip, eyes flitting tensely up and down the silent corridor as I try to boost the signal. I'm having trouble transferring just the right amount of power; I keep feeding it too little (silence) or too much (earsplitting feedback). I struggle to concentrate, to regulate the power flow… a steady, even output…

"…can't even have a proper discussion until he wakes up, anyway," Green Lantern's disembodied voice issues from the little handheld. "I don't know why we're doing this."

I've got it.

Wiping my moist palms against my pant legs, I heave deep, regular breaths.

'It's fine,' I tell myself firmly. 'Don't panic. Just… relax.' I try to convince my whirring heart to slow, to persuade my teeth to unclench, but there's no point. I can't fool myself into thinking I'm doing anything else.

I'm spying on the Justice League.

'Oh my God,' I think, teetering on the edge of panic. "I'm _spying _on the freaking _Justice League_…"

Deep in the air vents of the Watchtower, situated furtively in a shadowy duct above the Conference Room, sits a silent, motionless Backpack. Its sensors are set on reconnaissance mode; I imagine it's creepy little eye-feeler thing is extended, waving around like some kind of twisted bug antenna. It won't be detected; that much I'm sure of. As freaky as Backpack is, it's brilliant at stealth.

The second Richie lost consciousness an hour ago, Backpack performed a perfunctory assessment of the situation, scanned the room for my signature, and crept dutifully onto my back. At first I wasn't pleased to have the stupid thing back. It's really clingy when Richie's out of commission.

But as soon as they settled Rich into his bed and stabilized his condition, the Justice League started exchanging meaningful looks, muttering cryptic things to each other… generally disregarding me altogether. It wasn't long before I found myself thoroughly excluded as they retreated from the Infirmary.

Naturally, I was pissed.

Who the hell do these people think they are?

Sure, I'm seventeen years old, (Well, in three and a half weeks I will be...) and okay, I'll admit that I don't have oodles of experience with intergalactic alien computer villain-thingies like Superman and the rest of the League. But I'm a hero too, damn it! Haven't I proven myself a time or two, whilst battling evil in the streets of one of the freakiest towns in the U.S? Dakota's chock-full of wickedness, man! Richie and I have been foiling badness for years now! So why in the name of all things static-y am I not allowed in a super-secret superhero meeting all about my _best friend_? How is that fair? How is that JUST?

It isn't, that's how.

So here I am, spying on the Justice League. All that righteous anger? Yeah, that's exactly what drove me into this decidedly sketchy situation in the first place, literally on the verge of wetting myself as I wonder what gnarly things they could do to me if they found me out.

I try to focus on the frail voices coming from the transmitter instead of my probable fate.

"Braniac is a very serious enemy that we cannot afford to trifle with, Hawkgirl," Batman is murmuring in a creepy black voice. "I know you understand that."

"I do understand," she responds, sounding frustrated, "But we have an obligation to look after that boy. To look after both of them. They're teenagers for Pete's sake! They need guidance and help sometimes, regardless of how great they are at what they do. And if this is the only way to help him, I say it's worth the risk!"

"Do we know if there _is_ a risk?" chimes in Wonder Woman. "If Gear's idea is about 'suppressed memories', as Batman says, then Braniac will not be able to regain form or power. It seems to me to be a simple matter of extracting needed information."

"We can't know that," sighs Superman. "We can't make assumptions when it comes to Braniac; I learned that a long time ago." I frown. The Man o' Steel sounds sort of… tired, to me. 'Weary' might be a good word. I wonder for a second how many times he's dealt with this sucker, what his past with Braniac actually is… but I quickly decide I don't want to know. I'm good with ignorant, when it comes to weirdo computer-things that have taken over my best friend's body in the recent past. I'll avoid the nightmares, thank you very much.

"Like I said," Green Lantern is saying, "we can't really understand what the kid's plan is until he wakes up and explains it. In English. We don't know how much of Braniac is left inside his head, or whether it's even a threat or not… it's all up to him. My vote is that we wait for Gear to wake up, see what shape he's in, and go from there. There's no sense in arguing over this when we don't have all the information."

"I agree," J'onn states serenely.

"Yeah, me too," says the Flash, piping up for the first time sense I tuned in. For some reason, his voice sounds a little harder than usual. "But before we all gather around Gear's bedside and start playing Twenty Scary Questions—you guys have gotta do something for me." There's a short silence that feels intense, even to me. Prickly little goose bumps erupt on my arms. The League is totally quiet as the Flash continues.

"Lay off the 'Freaky Justice Lords' impersonation, fellas," he says, his tone rigid. "You_ terrified_ that kid when you all swarmed in there, lookin' as Lord-y as they come. He was afraid to mention Braniac, even to me, guys! He's perfectly aware of how dangerous that thing is, Supes; probably every bit as aware as we are. You know, having been possessed by it in the recent past. I think he thought you were gonna eye-zap him into next month, man, and he's already weakened by this brain issue he's dealin' with. Just… cut him a break. You guys are the most kick-ass crime fighters on earth. He's a seventeen-year-old kid. _Chill_."

The rest of the League falls into a heavy silence. I don't really get what about the Flash's little lecture could have made them all so… sheepish, for lack of a better word, and I _really_ don't get that whole 'Justice Lords' comment... pretty sure it's always been the Justice _League_, and I've never heard of these Lord guys… but it shut them up for a minute, and I can't help but think that's a good thing. At least _someone_ in the League is looking out for Richie.

"I agree with Flash," Hawkgirl says after a while, voice subdued. "Gear needs our help and our protection. Intimidating him won't solve anything."

"Thank you, Flash," Superman agrees. His voice is also oddly quiet… I'm really getting the feeling I'm missing out on something here. "We'll keep that in mind."

Murmurs of agreement filter through the transmission. Even I can feel the tension, eavesdropping here in the hallway. I have this outrageous urge to go in there and crack some kind of stupid joke, just to break up the weird hush, but, to my relief, I soon hear an awkward chuckle slice through the friction. "That's what I'm here for," the Flash declares haughtily. "To keep you folks from going all Lord-y on me."

Exasperated snorts replace the silence, and Superman's voice cuts across them, sounding considerably more mellow. "So we wait for Gear to wake, hear him out, then go from there. Agreed?"

Six voices declare their approval.

"Okay. We're done here, I think."

The sounds of their exits are my cue to call the stupid robot back and beat a hasty retreat to the infirmary. I hum some dumb seventies rock ballad in my head as I walk, just in case the Martian happens to be casually scanning thoughts or anything, and, using my handy-dandy temporary ID card, I slip into the infirmary without a hitch. I grin like as idiot as the door hisses shut.

The Justice League isn't out to get Richie, they're not going to plaster him into any walls for bringing up the dreaded Braniac, and they're going to listen to his incomprehensible idea about fixing his head. Going purely on personal experience, I know for a fact that Richie's ideas rarely fall through.

Plus, I'm better at this ninja-stealth thing than I thought I was.

Tonight is shaping up to be okay.

You know, aside from the fact that my friend is sick and unconscious for reasons only two people in the universe understand. I catch sight of his silhouette in the darkness, watch his chest rise and fall in the green glow of the machines that surround him.

The smile melts off my face.


	6. Chapter 6

I apologize for the delay. If you're still hanging in there for the rest of this story, thank you for your patience! Enjoy.

I'm getting really sick of waking up from inexplicable unconsciousness.

I'm immediately aware of where I am this time, and I stifle the panic threatening to bubble over before it can take hold. Eyes still closed, I make a quick assessment.

The room is quiet again, just like before, and I relish the silence as I struggle to collect myself. My head feels like someone's been practicing the tympani on it for a few days; I swallow convulsively against the nauseating ache. Past the pain in my skull, I notice that my body feels okay—doesn't seem like I was rendered unconscious by a physical stimulus. Heaving a sigh, I consciously acknowledge what my brain has already processed and catalogued: It was my stupid mind problem thing again. Damn.

Sucking in a fortifying breath, I open my eyes.

The Infirmary is dim, but the light emitted by the machines beeping and wheezing around me is bright enough to see by. I blink a few times, allowing my cognitive and physical systems to reorient themselves, then push myself up onto my elbows to take stock of my surroundings.

My eyes fall immediately onto Virgil.

He's seated in a wheeled lab chair beside me, swinging idly back and forth with his arms crossed tight over his chest. His clothes are wrinkled and his hair stands up even wilder than usual, but his expression is unreadable. Which is weird, because I can _always _read Virgil.

I come to two potential conclusions: He's either really, really mad, or really, really scared. Judging by the circumstances, I suppose it's probably both.

"Hi,"

"Hi," he answers softly. His voice is low and strained. "How d'you feel?"

"Lousy," I answer directly, remembering my commitment to keep him completely in the loop. He winces a little at my honesty; I feel my face flush. "But I'm okay. What happened this time? How long was I out?"

His gaze travels to the floor, which he fixes with a determined glare. He chews on his lip for a moment before he speaks. "It happened again. You collapsed. Shaking, nosebleed, the whole nine yards. It happened right over there." He gestures vaguely at the row of vacant beds. "You don't remember?"

Foggy images resurface now, tangling themselves with reality. I scrunch up my face, trying to sort through them all, and press against my closed eyes with my fingers… I see the Flash, watching me with wary eyes as I explained the barely explainable… Superman and the rest of them, glaring accusingly at me with condemnation in their voices… Lying with the cold ground against my back, confused and humiliated as sight failed me… A bloody thumb, hovering in my vision before blackness closed in… A hot swell of pain pulses inside my head, but it's by the time I let out a ragged gasp, it's receded back into a dull ache.

"Rich?"

I look up and blink the spots from my vision. Virgil's on his feet now, watching me with anxious eyes. He looks weary and alarmed… I can see now that he's been attempting to mask his fear from me, probably trying to hide it so it wouldn't scare me. A wry smile tugs at my lips.

"It's okay," I assure him before he can launch into a diatribe of questions. "I remember what happened, sort of. Where's J'onn? And Superman? What are… what are they going to do with me?"

Virgil's eyes soften, and he lays a warm hand against my arm. It's my turn to assault the floor with my stare. I can't bear to look into his eyes when he gets all sincere and gentle like this. It's like… like… well, I can't form an applicable analogy. It's not something he does often, and when he does… it scares me. I don't know why. It always has, ever since we were kids. It elicits a reaction in me I don't understand… so I disengage.

I feel the mattress sink under his weight as he sits on the edge.

"Stop panicking, bro," he says in that unbearably kind voice. "They're not going to do anything to you. They want to help you."

I absorb his words silently, try to incorporate them into the array of potential outcomes my paranoia has generated. They're not going to do anything to me? I smother a scoff. I find that rather difficult to believe, somehow. This is _Braniac_ they're dealing with. Braniac the destroyer, the annihilator. Not only capable of, but _designed to_ obliterate worlds without remorse, without feeling. They'd be fools to disregard that menace simply to save an inconsequential human child from full psychosis; the fact that that inconsequential child happens to be _me_ alters nothing, from a cosmic perspective. They have the means to contain me once I've fallen into madness; the famed Arkham Asylum in Gotham is a testament to that. And, if J'onn's diagnoses are true, chances are I won't live long enough to cause much trouble anyway. I'm not worth the threat. I see that now. No, they've got no reason to take what they perceive as a tremendous risk. No reason at all. I don't know why I ever thought they would.

"Sorry, man," I mumble to V, trying to muster a smile. "I can't help but doubt that."

He frowns and opens his mouth to say something (a rebuttal, no doubt, which I'm already prepared to counter) but the door hisses open and he's cut off by J'onn's quiet arrival.

We both turn to watch the Martian. He gazes back with sharp scarlet eyes. A moment of tense silence stretches between us, and I can feel a blush creeping up my cheeks. It's hard to tell, but I'm pretty sure J'onn is staring at me. Is he reading my mind? On impulse, I cast around for something to focus on so he can't read my thoughts, and settle, impetuously, on an image of that creepy Kool-Aid guy from TV… It's some preposterous technique I picked up in a comic book, years ago. Ludicrous, I know.

Finally, the Manhunter speaks.

"I'm pleased to see you awake, Gear," he says coolly, a soft smile playing in his features. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," I say shortly. I'm in no mood to tolerate idle pleasantries. I want to hear it straight. "What's the verdict?"

J'onn moves into the room, gesturing for Virgil to back away as he steps to my bedside. Those freaky red eyes dart from machine to machine, reading signals and observing rhythms, while his wide green hands ghost along the skin of my face. I hold myself as still as I can and wait silently.

Finally, he draws away. I crick my neck to look up at him, and a flare of annoyance sparks amidst my frayed nerves. Can't these people ever just _sit down_ so I don't have to break my stupid neck trying to see their stupid faces?

Before I can mention it, J'onn sinks into V's chair and into my eye level.

"The vessel in your head reopened under the strain of your affliction," he begins, straightforward and direct. "You're condition is deteriorating more rapidly than even I can keep pace with. I've repaired the damage once more, and I have stabilized your unique mental pattern and contained your excess thoughts, for the time being. However, the rate at which your powers are evolving has increased significantly, and the continued decline in your physical health has exacerbated the problem. You have a fever, which we are attempting to manage. Your body is… very unwell."

"How unwell?" I blurt, cringing. I don't really want to hear his answer, though I'm fairly certain I know it already.

J'onn sighs, and the weariness in his expression startles me. "Multiple organ failure is inevitable, at this point," he explains, observing me sadly. "Though how long it will be before you reach that stage is variable. Do you understand?"

I take several slow, regulated breaths, then nod my head. Though it's not pleasant to hear, I'm sort of shocked at how little the news affects me. I guess that, somewhere inside, I was aware of it from the start: this is going to kill me. Perhaps my brilliant subconscious had it figured out before my conscious mind even got close. Regardless, it's a moment before I feel steady enough to speak. "I understand," I say in what I wish was a bold voice. It sort of rings in my ears. "I'm running out of time fast. Nothing you can do. I get it. Before I kick it, though, I'd like to take a look at your research, if you've got it written down anywhere. At the very least, it'll keep me busy until I die."

A frown creases the smooth green skin of J'onn's odd face. "Gear…"

"Dude," Virgil says from behind J'onn's bulk. His voice sounds even shakier than mine. "Shut up."

I grimace, but remain silent. J'onn speaks again.

"I'm aware that the Justice League sometimes gives wrong impressions," he says quietly. Studying him, I notice something that seems so improbable it confounds me. There's something in his expression that looks suspiciously like… shame. I feel my jaw fall open.

"We do have a tendency to… intimidate," he continues, watching me uneasily. "I realize this. You must understand that dignity is a quality that each of us strives to maintain, with the possible exception of the Flash… and sometimes, that dignity becomes pride. Pride, which makes us forget how to associate with those unlike ourselves—those who are powerless, or uninformed, or, as in your case, young. I apologize for the misunderstanding that led you to believe that we would simply let you die, my young friend. I hope you will believe me when I say this is not so."

I'm flummoxed. I lean back a little to make eye contact with Virgil—his eyebrows are raised so high they're about to join his hair. The Voices in my head are battling it out at top volume: Fear, Reason, Science, Intuition… no one's winning. I can't decide how to approach this, which line of reasoning to follow, how to analyze it all. And the ache in my skull is escalating back toward tympani practice level…

"Okay…" I say, because I can't come up with anything better. "So… what, then?"

J'onn rises fluidly, clasping his hands politely behind his back. "The League would like to speak with you. They're waiting in our conference room, if you feel well enough to come."

I stare up at him, still struggling to catch up with my thoughts. Out of habit, I look to Virgil. He's standing motionless, watching me with apprehensive eyes from the shadows of the dim infirmary. He's uncharacteristically quiet. I surmise that he's allowing me to conduct myself how I please, not as a member of Static's team but simply as Gear, autonomous and uninhibited. I try to smile at him, but I'm not sure if it comes out right.

"Alright," I finally say, throwing back the sheet that covers me. "Lead the way, then."


	7. Chapter 7

I'm so sorry it's been so long! I feel awful for keeping you waiting, if anyone is still there at all... If so, I thank you sincerely! I have been completely astounded by the reviews this story has earned since I started it; I can't begin to tell you kind souls how grateful I am for your input, whether it's praise or critique. There's no explaining how happy these reviews have made me! Sometimes all a writer needs to hear is one voice, telling them to continue... And I've got two pages of them! I don't care how long or short they are, reviews are what inspire me to continue this and attempt to maintain a quality of writing that won't let anyone down. Thank you! This next segment is written for you admirable humans. Enjoy, and let me know what you think if you have time.

PS: Anything that sounds like "science" herein is, for the most part, utter crap. I make stuff up because I don't understand it... sorry.

PSS: I know Virgil is getting whiny and volatile... He's a teenager though, and under a little bit of pressure. He'll come around soon, I promise! In the meanwhile... sorry, again.

My annoyance is palpable. It takes _forever_ to reach the conference room. I refuse the proffered wheelchair the moment I see it, determined to maintain some degree of self-respect in spite of it all, but my body is frustratingly weak; I have to lean heavily on the strong and obliging arms of Virgil and J'onn to simply reach the elevator. By the time we get where we're going, they're virtually dragging me.

"Damn it, Gear," Virgil's muttering mutinously. "Can't just take the stupid wheelchair, _oooh_ no. He's got to make it on his own, stupid ass.…"

I'm too out of breath to offer my customary snappy retort.

The doors slide open at J'onn's swift prompt, and they lug me into the legendary conference room of the Justice League. It's unsurprisingly Spartan in décor—these superhero types never seem particularly inclined toward wallpaper or tablecloths or the like. An enormous elliptical table dominates the space (definitely oak, considering the distinctive color and the distinguishing whorl pattern), encircled by a collection of identical chairs, most of which are occupied by the members of the Justice League. Several of them stand as they heave me in; Green Lantern pulls out the chair beside him for Virgil to deposit me in. He then parks himself in the seat to my right, glaring rebelliously around as if defying them to resist him.

"Hello, Gear."

I glance up and find myself caught in the blue-eyed gaze of Superman. I swallow. My mouth tastes like sawdust.

"Uh… hi."

"How are you?" Wonder Woman asks frankly, and I can't help but look at her. She seems genuinely concerned; I watch those gorgeous eyes stray across my face and along the line of my body. I feel sort of self-conscious under the scrutiny of a dazzlingly beautiful woman like her... I know I don't look too great. And I feel ridiculous in these damn scrubby-surgeon-hospital clothes, here among the Earth's finest.

"Um…" I respond, ever so intelligently, "Dying, apparently."

She winces visibly. Maybe I should dial back the bluntness a tad. It does tend to unnerve people, especially adults. They're inclined, justifiably, I'll admit, to believing all teenagers suffer from immortality complexes and idealistic self-delusions. I, of course, haven't been subject to such illusions for years now… but I guess the brutal honesty can be a little disturbing.

I can feel myself blushing. Great.

Superman is watching me still and I wonder, absurdly, whether he's X-raying me or something. I wonder if he'd find anything… have my bones begun to suffer degenerative effects, or is the deterioration limited to tissues?

I forcibly shove that unpleasant thought to the back of my mind and try to meet his gaze.

"Gear," he says quietly, "I want to apologize for giving you the impression that we don't trust you. For making you fear us. Even the threat of Braniac shouldn't have made us… me, behave the way I did, and I'm sorry."

I'm stunned into silence, yet again. My thoughts are scrambled, like so much confetti tossed willy-nilly into the air. Superman is… apologizing? To me? Uh… what?

"Th-thanks," I manage to stammer, because I haven't said anything yet and they're all looking at me expectantly. "But you don't have to… I mean, I'm jumpier than usual, it wasn't… it's… ah…"

"He accepts your apology," V pipes up insolently, gently patting my back. "Thanks."

"Shut up," I mutter to him, whacking his hand away. "Stop antagonizing the freaking Justice League!"

He leans back in his chair, resting his hands behind his head, and pastes his most satisfied smirk on his face. "You deserved an apology from them," he says with a shrug.

"It's fine," I say, addressing the room at large. My face feels hotter by the second. "I was agitated, freaked out, and you guys just… uh… daunted me. A little. It's no problem, so let's just forget about it."

Superman observes me for a moment, and I'm afraid he's going to try to drag this out even longer. God… the _last_ thing I want is for these people to feel sorry for me. I don't want apologies, I just want to get on with this. I try to convey that in my expression. Finally, he nods.

"Gear," Batman says without preamble, "Explain your idea. The one you told Flash yesterday."

I stare dumbly at him. He stares back.

"Please," he rasps, grudgingly.

My brain turns a few somersaults before I can rein it back in. They're actually considering my stupid, stupid idea? They're… not just going to toss me into the nuthouse? The realization hits me like a Japanese Shinkansen train (regulary runs at three hundred kilometers per hour, or one hundred eighty-six miles per hour, tested at up to four hundred and forty-three kilometers an hour or two hundred and… okay. _Not important.._)

Oh my God… they're actually going to try and help me. Like, _really_ try to help me. Something inside my chest feels really tight.

"You… want to hear my idea?" I mutter.

Batman pierces me with his glare. "Obviously."

I'm still reeling. "You're not gonna just, like… shoot me into deep space for bringing up the Forbidden Topic?"

Hawkgirl snorts into her hand.

"Of course we aren't," Green Lantern assures me, smiling kind of sadly. He pats my shoulder gently, like he's afraid I'll shatter under his touch.

The way I'm feeling, I actually might.

"Wow."

No one speaks. I suppose they're giving me a moment. The delicate treatment is beginning to exasperate me, but right now I'm grateful for the quiet…

Aaaaand my brain catches up.

"O-okay," I reply, closing my eyes and heaving a deep breath. When I open them, I meet Batman's extra-creepy stare with as much determination as I've got. This is where I'm at home… this is what I know. Maybe any single one of these guys could beat the crap out of me on their worst day, but I… I'm a super genius. This is my element.

"What do you know about human subconscious data retrieval?" I ask Batman. "Like, Parish's Theory of Subliminal Recording?"

"I'm aware of it," he answers sharply. Apparently for the benefit of his colleagues, he explains. "Parish's idea was that the human mind recalls and records every minute thing that happens to it, on both conscious and subconscious levels. But it's outdated… it's been disproven several times."

I shake my head. "He was on the right track. I've disproven the disproving, so to speak. I've almost confirmed the theory with a battery of observations and tests in conjunction with an intensive study of my own mind… I used myself simply because of my capacity to access subliminal records, see. Turns out, the cortex _does _preserve recollections over which the cognizant mind has little to no influence, and, with the proper means, those memories can theoretically be accessed in their pristine state, altered neither by the corrosion of time nor the natural mechanisms of the conscious mind, which almost invariably modify cerebral information. Thus, in theory, the only factor that keeps _everyone_ from being a "genius" is their inability to retrieve the latent memories recorded in the cortex. I, however, have that ability. Hence the super genius schtick. If I were a legal adult, a PhD, and… you know, not a Bang Baby, it'd all be published by now, but…. Well. Can't publish without credentials, can't get credentials without a name. And also, I'm seventeen."

The room is silent again. I feel weird… I turn to look at Virgil, but he's still wearing that stupid smug grin. Not at all helpful.

"Bats," Flash finally says, breaking the hush. "Translate!"

The Bat fixes his speedster colleague with that freaky Bat-glare thing, but it doesn't seem to work on him, funnily enough, after a few seconds, he obliges.

"It's revolutionary research," he begins, nodding at me in a vaguely complimentary manner. My stomach executes a front flip. "If Gear could get this published, his research would be historically comparable to that of Watson and Crick, Osler, Salk… even Einstein."

"Sheesh!" Hawkgirl exclaims, leaning forward to rest her chin on her hand.

I can feel Green Lantern, on my left, staring at me. In fact, most of the Justice League is staring at me now. I conscientiously avoid looking at anyone, focusing instead on a particularly unique grain of the oak table.

"What it means is that the mind records everything that happens, in perfect detail and with razor clarity," Batman continues. "Only humans aren't wired to access the subconscious, perfect versions of their memories. We can only reach the conscious ones, or those associated with the "cognizant mind", as Gear words it. He, however, is capable of tapping into that subconscious store of memories, giving him what we might call a perfect photographic memory… just amplified exponentially." Batman pauses, observing me with the keen eye of a scientist. My eyes flick to his, and he holds me with them. "He has, in effect," he says, "located the psychological key to his own powers."

"That's… pretty damn cool," Green Lantern exclaims, awe evident in his voice. He whistles, clearly impressed.

"When did you have time to do this research, though?" Hawkgirl asks me, her eyes bright with interest. "You're a superhero. You and Static are out every night… almost every day, working your tails off to keep Dakota safe. And you do go to school, right? High school?"

"Of course we do," I answer, a little offended. "We're not dropouts."

"Then how did you find the time to make a groundbreaking discovery, while juggling everything else?" her stare is ripe with curiosity. I shrug.

"I dunno. Here and there."

"He's a super genius, that's how," Virgil interjects hotly, and I resist the urge to plant my face in my palms. I detest it when he's sanctimonious… especially when it concerns me. I try to shut him up with a few choice words, but he's climbed onto his soapbox already. I sink back into my seat, rubbing my temples with my knuckles.

"This is only one of his babies, you know," V's declaring angrily. I wonder briefly what's made him so completely livid, but I'm too busy being mortified to give it much contemplation. "One of dozens. Hundreds, maybe! He thinks this stuff through in his free time. He's always working on something like this, and he never lets on how big it is until I drag it out of him, but he's brilliant. People underestimate him, all the time. That's why he's such a great hero: no one sees him coming 'til after he's kicked their butt into next Sunday."

I can't make myself look up. My face is searing with embarrassment. _Why _does he do this to me? They don't care how smart I am; no one needs to hear his little monologue, for Pete's sake. All it's doing is making me want to dissolve into a little puddle of genius on the textured metal floor.

"Damn it, V," I mumble hoarsely, peering at him through my fingers. "Shut it already! This is unnecessary…"

He turns his livid stare on me. I don't feel up to facing off with him, so I just stare back blankly. "_You_ shut up!" he says with a very grown up whine to his voice. "They underestimated you, too, you know! That's why they freaked out at the first mention of Braniac. That's why they pushed you into collapsing, when they _knew_ you were sick already! Maybe _you _accept that sad excuse for an apology, but I sure as hell don't."

He stands abruptly, casting his furious gaze around the room. Everyone's aware of the sizzling violet sparks flickering at his fingertips and crackling along the skin of his arms; I can perceive just the tiniest edge of nervousness in Batman's eyes, the scarcest hint of tension to Hawkgirl's shoulders and Green Lantern's clenched fists. But Virgil just kicks his chair back and jams his hands deep into his pockets. I know that move… that's what he does when he's on the edge of letting loose. Of making a mistake that he _knows_ is a mistake. I chew the inside of my cheek. He's seriously pissed.

"Sorry, Rich," he growls past clenched teeth. "I'm can't be here. I'm peacing."

And he's out the door before I can say a word, leaving the light bulbs flickering and buzzing in his wake.

A fizzling silence lingers for about an eternity. Too numb to do anything but gape, I stare after Virgil like a blinking idiot. My hands are clenched in my lap, slick with nervous sweat.

I can feel the eyes of the League turning to me, one by one, and I struggle to gather up my remaining wits. It's a long, awkward moment before I summon the guts the look any one of the in the eye.

"Shit," I finally spit out when I meet Superman's unreadable gaze. I immediately feel myself go scarlet at my unprofessional profanity. "I mean… uh… sorry! God, I'm so sorry. He's been… freaking out about all this and I guess he… uh, snapped, a little? I promise he won't do anything too stupid… I mean, he's got a lot of self-control, despite the little light show he put on just now… Jeez, he's an idiot…"

"It's all right, Gear," The Flash says soothingly, looking at me with just a little apprehension.

"Don't worry about it," Green Lantern says. "The kid's pissed; it happens. It's not your fault." He lays a hand on my shoulder again in that delicate sort of way, and I've never felt weaker. It's harder than I'd ever admit just to keep looking these guys in the eye. All I really want to do is crawl under the table and be invisible.

"We'll continue without him, I guess," Superman says with a shrug. He's putting forth a noticeable effort to be kind to me; it's clear in that glaringly obvious, exceptionally careful tone in his voice. _Whatever_, I decide. _ If Mr. Greatest Guy Who Ever Lived feels like being uncomfortably nice to me, I'll take it. _

"Okay," I agree, trying not to sound meek and disoriented. Pretty sure I'm not fooling anyone. "Carry on, then."

"You were telling us about your ability to access perfect memories, right?" Wonder Woman prompts, and I nod once, trying to make my thoughts click back into Impressive Genius Mode and out of I'm-A-Blathering-Imbecile Mode. I shut my eyes and heave a deep breath, wincing at the needle of pain that pierces my skull and lances along my spine. I hope, foolishly, that none of them notice the quivering weakness that's starting to seep into my bones…

"Yeah," I say, opening my eyes with what I hope is a confident smile. "Cognizant access to subconscious memories. Right."

I lace my fingers in front of my face, silent as I organizing my maelstrom of thought into comprehensible terms. I can tell they're still watching me, but thankfully no one's saying a word. I imagine they've spent enough time around super-brilliant freaks like me to know when to give us our space. Haha… I snap my fingers a few times when I've reached synchronicity and grin my dorkiest grin.

"Okay," I begin. "So since we know that I've got the ability to instantaneously retrieve information gathered in my past, and I've established through my research that any and all events are recorded within my cortex, it stands to reason that I'm capable of extracting uncorrupted memories from sources that most humans would be unable to log data from in the first place. Make sense?"

I garner a few encouraging nods. And in Batman's case, an impatient eyebrow tweak. I swallow anxiously… the scary part is coming up fast. My hands are shaking and clammy; I pull them off the table and slide them onto my lap as surreptitiously as possible. I fix my stare on them. With a churning gut and a fluttering heartbeat, I plow on.

"Since I'm sure you're all f-familiar with my… um… encounter with the Br… the Braniac virus, you know that I was merged with that… that thing for longer than twelve hours. Now... no one but Static knows this, okay? It's weird shit, I know. Just… hear me out before you freak, 'kay?" I don't bother waiting for a response. "During that time, I acquired access to Braniac's internal registry. In a way, I sort of 'hacked' its directory and the data logged therein, just like it had achieved access into _my_ mind. And… I got a look at some things."

I hear several intakes of breath. Sounds like they're catching on.

"Aaaand… by some things, I mean _a lot._ A hell of a lot."

Someone lets out a "holy crap". It sounds like The Flash.

"I can't really recall the majority of what I learned," I persist, fighting back nausea. "It's too much, even for my brain. But I have very compelling reason to believe that that data is still in here somewhere," I tap my temple lightly, "and that, with the proper assistance, I could remember enough of it to know how to save my own life. If there's a way, I mean."

The room is dead quiet again. I count my breaths, forcing myself to keep them even and calm despite the headache threatening to pop my skull like a New Year's toy all over the Justice League's fancy conference table. The sound of my heartbeat thumping in my ears seems weirdly loud.

Then, Batman speaks.

"You understand the flaw in your logic, I assume," he rumbles.

I nod, tugging on the collar of my stupid scrubby shirt. "I know, I know. I understand the negative potential you might see, trust me. But I've done my research and calculated odds. I firmly believe that's not going to be a problem."

"Hey," The Flash interrupts. "I'm not following. What flaw? What potential?"

"Mind keeping us in the loop, here?" Green Lantern agrees.

I look to Batman, but he looks about as likely to elaborate as a granite statue. So I sigh heavily and, with a sense of growing resignation, I explain.

"Batman's afraid that the Braniac virus has… 'infected' me, if you will, in the same way it would a computer or a piece of advanced machinery. He thinks that Braniac could employ my body to return to full power, using me as a host, of sorts. I'll admit, the possibility exists. But from what I've learned in my extensive studies and from my time under the virus' control, I don't believe that's the case. I don't think it has the ability to biologically integrate with an unwilling and fully organic host, especially without any form of technological network to link the two parties. The odds are infinitesimally small."

I can tell I've made them edgy. It strikes as irrationally funny that I, a skinny white nerd in a set of hospital pajamas, have got the most powerful beings in the galaxy squirming in their seats. Then the humor dies as quickly as it struck, and I'm left feeling feverishly nervous under their penetrating scrutiny. Or else just feverish. It's sort of hard to tell, anymore.

"I believe there is more to tell, Gear," J'onn says coolly, eyeing me critically. It occurs to me that this is the first he's spoken since leading me to the conference room; I'd almost forgotten he was here. A minute sense of… safety, or something, niggles its way between the dull pain and the bitter anxiety that are battling it out for control inside my chest, and I forcibly unclench my twisted fingers as he watches me with those odd red eyes. I flop back into my chair in what I'm sure is a very impertinent teenager-ish move, and toss my hands into the air.

"You guys know so damn much, why don't you tell the story?" I mumble mutinously, regretting it even as the words spill out. I cover my cheeks with my hands; they're hot. I don't want to know whether I'm mortified or my fever's spiked. Instead of wondering, I plow forward.

"Yes, there's more, and no, it's not pretty," I blurt, rather rudely. I massage my temples, and will myself not to roll my eyes. "There's no way to know the exact volume of the data I processed while inside Braniac's records. I have a vague idea, but there's a… moderate chance that attempting to access a mass of information that's too much for my brain to handle could drive me to… um…. A rather sticky end."

Hawkgirl's eyes narrow. "What do you mean, 'moderate'?"

"What do you mean '_sticky_'?" The Flash exclaims, surprised.

"Um…" I murmur, turning my gaze to the ceiling. Not surprisingly, it's pretty boring. Sort of matches the infirmary ceiling, though…

"'Moderate'," I say reluctantly, "as in…. a roughly 50% chance of coming out fine. Not so bad. And 'sticky' as in… sticky."

"Full loss of his mental faculties, most likely," J'onn interjects, his voice low and serious. "Cognitive function, motor skills, normal memory and thought processing… he would lose all. Death would almost certainly follow, most likely in an unpleasant and painful manner."

I pull a face. "Oh please, don't sugarcoat anything."

"Those are awfully high stakes," Superman says quietly, eyebrows drawn together darkly. He's looking at me with something bordering on pity shadowing those blue eyes, and I resist the impulse to stand up and high-tail it out of there. Instead, I shrug.

"Not really, if you think about it," I say, smiling a little at the discomfort I can see in their body language. "I mean, I'm dead if I don't try it. It's either die by hanging around and wasting away into a feeble little nutcase, or die a gory death trying to save myself from insanity. Go out with a bang, and whatnot. This way there's at least a 50% chance I'll make it out alive, possibly even more with J'onn's help."

They aren't saying anything. I feel sort of like I'm delivering a talk in high school Speech and Debate, watching the class stare at me with vacant eyes. So I utilize my classic Speech and Debate technique, tested and proven in class after dreary class: blabber on until they agree with you.

"Look," I say, pulling out my patented Richie's Rational Voice, "I know you guys are hesitant to mess around with anything having to do with Braniac. I understand that better than most, actually. But I can give you a 97.872% guarantee that Braniac will _not_ be manipulating me into anything, and that's a number you can bet your house on. I'm nearly certain that its consciousness is not inside me, only a portion of its knowledge, see? And knowledge can't hurt anyone; it's the possessors of that wisdom that cause the sort of chaos that Braniac has."

I look up at the members of the Justice League, seated around me with more dignity that I muster in a thousand years. I know I look weak and pathetic to them, but I hold my voice as steady as I can. I catch Superman's eyes with mine and hold them.

"I understand if you don't want to let me go through with this," I say with a reassuring smile. "Just give me the word and I'll put my stuff in order, figure out something to tell my parents and finish off my last experiments. The world won't miss me much; I know I'm not important or anything like you guys are. Whatever you decide, I'll respect that. I won't blame you at all, though I can't speak for Static."

I rise to my feet, seizing the table as I stumble dizzily. As quickly as my unsteady legs will carry me, I walk to the door and open it. There's no point in me sticking around while they figure it all out; I'd rather just get the heck out of Dodge. But at the last minute, something prompts me to turn around.

Hawkgirl is on her feet, looking like she means to come after me, but the Green Lantern's hand is curled around her wrist. The Flash looks as if he's about to jump out of his skin; Wonder Woman's arms are folded tightly against her body as she watches me with wide blue eyes.

I realize that I don't want these people agonizing over me; I don't want my fate to plague them and haunt them like it would me, were the situation reversed. So I paste on my brightest smile and shove my glasses up my nose.

"It's perfectly rational for you to say no," I say. My voice sounds raspy and feeble to my ears. "So don't feel like I won't understand. I promise I will."

Then I nod my head a little, rub my sweaty palms against my pant legs, and leave.


	8. Chapter 8

Author's note: Well, I feel pretty silly. I apologize sincerely for falling off the face of the earth. But I've found my way back and here's a new chaper to ease your annoyance with me! Yay? And boy, have I struggled with the upload of this chapter. I am not good at this posting thing!

It's Static speaking again.

I feel ridiculous. I can't even believe… I don't know _what _I was thinking… That was… Ugh.

Hell, I'm an idiot.

I can't believe the stunt I just pulled. I let my temper get the best of me… again. I sat down with the effing Justice League and had the nerve to _sass _them… again. And I left my best friend in there alone, to deal with whatever he's dealing with without me by his side. _Again_. _Damn it._

I'm trying my hardest not to fry anything, I really am. My limbs are still humming with electricity; I can feel it surging in my veins like blood. I don't really even know where I am; some gunmetal gray room full of faintly beeping computers and constellations of blinking red lights… looks like something out of Star Trek. Like _that_ narrows it down on a freaking space station. I hardly remember getting here; my head was so full of fury and static when I blazed out of the conference room, it's all sort of a blur.

I don't even know what's got me so worked up, to be honest. It's not like it's anyone's fault that Richie's brain is turning on him. Well, anyone's fault but mine… Now there's another whole can of worms I probably shouldn't reopen, but there's no blocking the wave of guilt that's swelling up inside my chest and spilling into the rest of me, hot and painful.

Damn.

Years ago, when his powers first manifested, I woke up one school night at one or two in the morning to Richie tapping quietly on my window. It wasn't the first time he'd come unannounced in the middle of the night, not by a long shot, but something was different that night. Something about his face. I can still picture it in my mind, pale and strained and full of cold fear. Lost. He climbed over the window sill and sank cross-legged onto the foot of my bed and, without a word from me, started talking in this hoarse, quiet, creepily still voice about how terrified he was. It scared the hell out of me. It still chills me to the bone, thinking about his scary-calm voice that night. He was so confused, so overwhelmed, and there wasn't much I could do for him but be strong and promise him over and over again that everything was okay.

Which is why I never let on that I was drowning in guilt.

No matter how sweet it is to be a Bang Baby, no matter how many people you save or bad guys you thwart, there's no denying that it's… well, it's a hell of a ride. In one petrifying moment, you're suddenly not yourself anymore. You're wrestling with powers you don't understand and that, as cool as you say they are, scare you to the very core. You've got no choice but to hide, to pretend nothing's changed when your entire world has been flipped on its tail. Because the alternative is to be taken away and strapped to a table and injected and scanned and studied like a freaking animal, and have your family turn on you like you've stopped being you and hear those words that, secretly, every one of us metahumans hate more than anything.

Monster.

Demon.

Freak.

And I dragged Richie with me into that world. I exposed him to the gas. I made him what he is.

It took me a long time to get over that. I spent a lot of hours sitting silently in the Gas Station Of Solitude, watching Rich try to process the new thoughts in his head, try to understand his own mind. And as he gradually came to terms with it, learned to enjoy it, I did too.

But now…

Relapse. Awesome.

"Hey."

I peel my face out of my hands. To my surprise, Richie is sitting against the wall beside me, arms draped coolly over his knees. His expression is casual, but he's watching me with tired eyes. He's reading me like a book; I can tell.

When did I get on the floor?

"Hi," I say, watching the electricity rolling over my fingertips.

"You alright?" he asks quietly. He taps my thumb with his forefinger, watches the white sparks skip over his skin as the static snaps loudly. I shake my head.

"Didn't think so," he replies. "Wanna talk about it?"

I shake my head again.

"Okay."

Silence stretches between us. For the first time in my memory, I feel shifty and uncomfortable in it. I feel like I'm spinning and my thoughts are all tangled and twisted I just _can't _shut off the guilt. And before I can stop them, words are spewing out of my mouth like puke.

"Are you going to die, Rich?" I can hardly hear myself. I sound like a frightened child.

He's looking at me again with those weary eyes, and I can feel that he's trying to figure something out. I force myself to meet his gaze. The candidness almost hurts.

Then, he shrugs. "I honestly don't know."

That almost scares me more than a 'yes'. Richie knows pretty much everything, and what he doesn't know he can guess with unsettling accuracy. Him not knowing something, and openly admitting it to me… I try not to let my panic show.

He sees right through me.

"I know, I know," he says with a half-hearted laugh. "The know-it-all doesn't know it all. Want to hear what happened after you left?"

I nod, and he tells me. I listen carefully as he recaps the whole thing: the apology, the explanation, The Big Idea. He dumbs it down for me just like he always does, but it takes some effort to wrap my head around it anyway. And when I do, I feel even worse than before.

I can't think of a word to say. I mean, I pretty much knew from the beginning this was where we stood, and I had a feeling Richie's big plan was going to be crazy-dangerous and only semi-comprehensible. So I'm not surprised, not really. Just completely devastated.

Richie's looking shockingly chill for having just discussed his own demise.

I sigh and plant my face right back between my hands.

"Hey listen, V," he says, laying a light hand on my shoulder, "I know you're freaking out. Heck man, the entire Justice League knows that, and no one's faulting you for it. It's totally understandable. But you can't blame this on anyone. It's nobody's fault, just my own nasty-ass luck turning on me again. So quit beating yourself up, okay?"

Yep. He did it again. I'd _swear_ he's a mind reader as well as a super-genius. I can't hide a thing from him, never could. Maybe that's why it bothered me so much these last few months, knowing that _he _was hiding something from _me_.

"It's not that easy, bro," I mumble into my palms. "I can't just let this go… just not be sad and confused and disturbed and mad. I feel half-crazy, thinking about it all."

Richie chuckles dryly. "Join the club, dude."

I snort, despite my misery.

"Look, Virgil," he says gently, like he's handling something brittle and fragile. "I've got something to say and you've got to hear me, so just do me a solid and shut it for five minutes. Okay?"

I look at him sidelong, nod hesitantly.

Blowing out a loud breath, he launches into it without preamble. "There's a good chance I'm gonna die pretty soon."

"Man, that's not-"

"Dude, I told you to shut it," he interjects firmly. "Just _listen_. You know it's true; I know it's true. We might as well face the fact. My chances aren't stellar, there's no questioning that. Based on the readouts and test results I've seen and the rate of progression, I estimate I've got a good day before things start getting really… sticky."

I swallow. "Sticky?"

He shoots me a you-know-what-I-mean look and my guts twist angrily. "Yeah… sticky. And I don't know about you, but I don't really want to wait around for that to happen. I can't be idle anymore. So what I want to do is go through with my plan. Right away. Tomorrow."

All the nervous energy bouncing around in my system leaves me in the space of a breath.

I should have guessed. This is so typical of him… he comes up with these crazy elaborate plans full of huge words and dorky smirks and once he's got one fixed in his head, he makes it happen. No lag time, no notice. Gives me about a millisecond to get used to the idea. In fact, half the time he starts before he remembers to tell me about the plan at all.

I guess I should be grateful he bothered to let me in on it before he starts trying to blow his own brain up.

"Richie…" I mumble. I can't think of anything to say. I feel like a deflated balloon.

He shakes his head, cutting me off. "Look, Virgil," he says firmly, "There's really no other option here, if you think about it. I can either kick back and let myself wither away into a drooling, empty Richie-shell, or I can _do _something and try to fix this. Maybe my chances of success are less than promising, but I would rather go out kicking. I've been feeling particularly proactive as of late, and you know you suck at waiting."

He peers frankly at me over the tops of his old glasses, somehow forcing me to meet his eyes. "The rest of our lives are waiting down there, man. I have to find out if I'll be around to live mine."

Great. Juuuuust great.

How's a guy supposed to argue with a heartbreaking argument like the little gem he just delivered without sounding like a giant flaming tool? There is nowhere I can go from here, absolutely nowhere. Richie has effectively taken the fight out of me. He's given me no option but to be okay with this, the stupid jerk.

I never knew I could feel so hollow.

"Okay," I manage to say, tripping over my tongue. I close my eyes against his placid stare.


End file.
